


Goodbye For Now

by wonder_boy



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Dissociation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Healing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Malcolm Bright Gets a Hug, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 58,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26871397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonder_boy/pseuds/wonder_boy
Summary: No one’s born broken, and some people can’t be fixed.-Set twenty years after the pilot and a year after Martin Whitly's death, Malcolm reflects on his life in a televised interview with his sister prompted by the release of his memoir. Told through a series of questions and flashbacks, Malcolm relays the story of growing up with his father, and his journey through his own trauma while he tries to live outside of his father's shadow.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Ainsley Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Jessica Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright/Dani Powell
Comments: 19
Kudos: 41
Collections: Prodigal Son Big Bang 2020 - Sunday Posts





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sop12345d](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sop12345d/gifts), [stlouisphile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stlouisphile/gifts), [tess_genor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tess_genor/gifts).



> It's finally here!! It's been one heck of a ride getting here, but now we can all breathe a little better. I am insanely proud of my team and their efforts to make this Bang a reality and I can't wait to share what we have with the fandom!
> 
> I just want to say a big thank you to Tess for being such a patient and understanding beta to work with! We've become so much closer through this experience, and I hope we can continue collaborating on more projects!
> 
> Another big thank you to my first artist Estelle for bearing with me through this entire journey! A huge thank you to my other artist Donna for sticking it through when times got tough and allowing me to guide your work. Your works are incredible and you both are insanely talented - I am so lucky to have all three of you!!
> 
> Please visit, comment, gives kudos to these amazing works found here: [Sop12345d's Work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27114886) & [stlouisphile's Work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27184588)
> 
> Tess also created a playlist inspired by the fic! Listen along as you read: [Worst In Me](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4uWTkPByf0Tq2n6euWs4Kh?si=s2nMDSdKTe2Mh-Ja_GX5Iw)

Malcolm didn’t realize how hot the studio lights could get.

While he’s sitting under the sun in a folded chair, there are two specialists on either side of his face working to conceal every wrinkle he’s gained in the last year. Strands of silver have started making their appearance in a few patches of his brown hair and there’s no telling how much money he’s spent hiring someone to make it go away.

His mother continues to tell him how freeing it felt when she embraced her gray hairs, thanks to her naturally full and thick hair that never fell out. She believes that he’s trying to hold onto his youth but he’ll smile and agree because he never feels like divulging the real reason why he refuses to allow it to grow.

They finish up their last and final touches before the young man in blue hands him a mirror to see for himself. “How did we do?” he asks in a playful tone.

Malcolm takes a moment to check himself out in the hand held mirror by waving it around, checking each side of his face before he eventually hums in approval. Be it their expertise or the grace of God, the heavy gray bags under his eyes have been polished into ivory handbags in the last ten minutes.

These people are clearly good at what they do.

“I think you guys did an excellent job,” Malcolm muses with a small smile curling on his face. He’ll never admit out loud how much of a snob he is when it comes to his appearance; he’s determined to age gracefully and keep up his polished, charismatic personal look for as long as he can.

“Thank you,” he says, and hands the mirror away.

As the two specialists scurry away, Malcolm eyes the stage manager standing on the other side of the room talking to one of the crew members. His mind wanders to places about what they could be discussing; he doesn’t doubt that it’s about him.

Nerves tug at him despite how well he’s been doing all day. He shifts in his chair some, anxiously adjusting the front of his suit as he sits up, and checking his watch for the hundredth time since he got there. In eight minutes, they’re supposed to be starting.

He quickly realizes that eight minutes is a minute too long for him to sit alone with his thoughts.

Malcolm feels himself losing his grip and his hands grab at the air to release the tension in them but gets nowhere from sitting in one spot.

The lights above are blinding, the tie around his neck is too tight, and his vision is starting to blur before he can stand on his own two feet. The noise of the background commotion heightens, blaring in his ears and a high-pitched screech from a sound test is ultimately the last straw.

“Excuse me,” he utters out loud to no one, and gets up from the chair.

He doesn’t know where he’s going but his feet are dragging him far away from the commotion of the room into a small dark room that’s much quieter. It’s an empty staging area with unused props and furniture. No one’s here.

Malcolm finds a wall to lean on and doubles over, hands on his knees as he tries to steady his erratic breathing. His eyes close as he forces himself to focus on the white noise coming from above rather than the sound of his beating heart.

Malcolm almost regrets doing this. _Almost._

He starts to regret ever agreeing to this, scolding himself for allowing the public to sway his decision in doing a stupid TV interview about his father who is in fact–

He breathes heavily from his nostrils, shoving the thought away.

 _Now’s not the time_ , he reminds himself.

His phone buzzes from his pocket, and he’s thankful for the momentary distraction. Malcolm pulls it out and when his screen lights up, he grins. It’s an email from work but he clears it so he can see the old picture on his screen from years ago of his wife and their son when he was just three years old.

They’re sitting on a bench in Central Park both with ice cream in their hands, basking in the afternoon sun on a particularly beautiful day, smiling and grinning at each other as their son waves to Malcolm behind the camera.

His mind drifts off to the memory of that day until he’s interrupted by a message from Dani.

On impulse, he clicks on it and searches through her contact to call her.

He puts his phone up to his ear and chews on this bottom lip as the number dials, anxiously waiting for her to answer. Thankfully, she picks up almost immediately and he’s forever grateful.

“Hello?”

“Hi, dear,” he chuckles into the phone. Malcolm can practically hear her smile on the other side of the phone, and it makes him grin, too. “Hi,” Dani says, smiling. “What’s up?”

“I – um,” Malcolm stutters into the phone before he takes another big breath through his nose. He learned years ago that he doesn’t need to hide away when he becomes anxious, and he doesn’t have to cower away when he needs help. Another deep inhale through the nose and exhale out the mouth before he picks up the phone again. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Judging by her silence, he can tell she’s thinking of something to say.

“I’m here,” Dani says, trying to reassure him. “You know you can still back out of this, right?”

Malcolm shakes his head like she can see him. “It’s too late for that, Dani. You know that.” He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’d give anything to be at work rather than sitting pretty just to bear my soul for millions of invasive viewers.”

She chuckles across the line, then pulls her phone away to mumble something to someone else. The phone goes quiet for a few seconds until he hears her put it back up to her ear. “Sorry, officer asking about a case file. And, I know. Just promise me you’ll call me or text me when you get a chance to. Check in, let me know how it’s going.”

“Yes ma’am,” he chuckles.

“I’m serious, Malcolm.”

“I know, I know,” he sighs, straightening up and stretching his back. “I’ll be home soon. This shouldn’t take all day, according to Ainsley. I’ll be fine, I promise. I’ll call you when I can, or text if you’re busy with work.”

Dani hums and adjusts the phone. “If I don’t hear from you in an hour, I’m sending Gil to come get you.”

That earns a boisterous laugh from Malcolm, loud enough for him to hear it and cover his mouth with his arm, body shaking as he sputters into his sleeve. She’s laughing over the phone with him, probably thinking of the same exact image of an angry Gil storming through a broadcasting building in a turtleneck waving a fully loaded pistol.

“Thanks, Dani. I really needed that,” he says, laughter coming out in short chokes.

Dani grins on the other end, snickering. “You’re welcome, love.”

Malcolm hums. He absentmindedly checks his watch even though the room is too dark for him to see it properly.

“I think I should head back. Ainsley’s probably looking for me,” he sighs, not wanting to hang up the phone just yet. Dani probably hears it in his voice too by the way she pauses to give him time to breathe.

Dani’s head falls to her chest, phone still in hand. “You sure you’re okay to go back in there?” Her voice is careful as it tiptoes around stating the obvious. Malcolm sighs again and runs a hand through his hair, then curses at himself for messing up the hard work of the specialists’.

“No, and it’s already too late to turn back now.” Malcolm takes a deep breath then exhales, listening for Dani. “Alright,” she says. “Take care of yourself. You don’t have to answer every single question; the book’s already out there. If something makes you uncomfortable, don’t answer it. Editing is a thing, and they’re professionals.”

Malcolm nods into the phone. “Yes ma’am.”

“Okay.” Dani pauses, and waits to hear if he has anything else to say. When nothing comes, she readjusts the phone by her ear. “I’ll see you later, Malcolm.”

He softly smiles to himself as his chest warms hearing his name on her lips. “Okay,” he replies. “I’ll see you later, Dani.”

She chuckles at him mimicking her but she doesn’t comment on it. “Bye.”

Malcolm hums, smiling. “Bye, dear.”

The phone clicks and Malcolm’s arm falls from his ear and hangs at his side, phone weighing like an anchor to keep him there. He’s left with the quiet, cruel reality that the world has given him, and judging by the subtle tremor in his hand, he concludes the phone call to Dani didn’t alleviate as much anxiety as he needed it to.

Malcolm closes his eyes and takes one last breath, holding for a four count before exhaling. He nods to himself with false confidence, and stuffs his phone back in his pocket as he makes his way out of the room. He turns towards the hallway he came from and follows the yellow brick road back to their studio.

He mentally prepares for the gasps, questions and complaints. To his surprise, there are none.

Artists, crew members and stage heads are too busy moving to get the final touches in to even notice him. He looks over to the center of the room to find Ainsley’s chair still empty but he doesn’t doubt that she’ll walk out of the door at any moment.

Malcolm plays off his absence as if it were purposeful. He sticks his hands in his pockets and strolls over to a smaller stage that holds their makeup and hair equipment. The young boy in blue from earlier spots him walking over and immediately notices the miniscule change in his hair.

Instantly, he apologizes for messing it up, and the young boy fetches the other specialist to put her work back into place.

“Two minutes till call!”

A shout from the stage manager sends a rush of anxiety through Malcolm just as the lady is almost done with the last touches on his hair. “They’re about to run a sound check,” she comments, taking a small step back to dissect her work.

“Where do I need to go?” he asks, eyes wandering to the commotion taking place just over her shoulder. “Close your eyes,” she says, moving a couple of strands and takes a can of hairspray to keep it in place. “You can go back to where you were sitting. They’re going to mic you and do a quick test, shouldn’t take more than a minute or two.”

She steps away again and stares at him until she’s satisfied. When she walks away, Malcolm walks over to the full vanity mirror and takes a good look at himself through the bright white lights. He’s sure to make it quick, skimming through the important bits and pieces of his look from head to toe until there’s nothing left for him to do.

A small smile creeps up on his lips.

He looks _sharp._

Traces of fingertips grace his black suit jacket in agreement.

The voice of the stage manager catches his attention. A last glance at himself in the mirror before he nods in approval and leaves his reflection behind to sit center stage.

From the moment he sits down in the chair provided for him, he doesn’t say a word to anyone.

He keeps a careful observation of everything happening around him, making mental notes about certain people in the room, where employees fall on the corporal hierarchy, and just which articles of clothing are dead giveaways of where they stand in their own personal lives.

A crew member approaches him and starts talking, presumably about the sound but Malcolm’s barely listening. He complies with their sound check, giving small vocal cues for them in case they need to adjust their volume. He’s not really present, because there’s something in the room that’s more interesting than a standard mic check. Malcolm’s focused on cracking their stage manager.

It’s comforting.

He’s not intimidated by her, just curious.

Being able to dissect and understand another person without attachment brings him a sense of normalcy and familiarity, something he can always fall back on.

She’s put together from head to toe down to the small details but her choices in fashion suggest insecurity and indecisiveness. Malcolm picks at her hair style, her frames, and the lack of a ring – or, any jewelry. His eyes squint as she walks around with her clipboard, craning his neck to get a good look at her so he can get to know her better.

“That’s not creepy at all,” comes a voice from above.

Malcolm nearly jumps out of his skin and whips his head around like he’s been caught doing something he’s not supposed to. Which isn’t too far off.

Towering above him in the highest red bottoms and sharpest blazer she could find, Ainsley shoots him an incredulous look with her arms folded across her chest. Her hair shines under the lights like something out of a movie, and the waves drape over her shoulder to cradle her white crystal necklace that compliments her natural makeup look. Her earrings are simple but cost a fortune, and he practically chuckles at her impeccable fashion sense.

For a moment, Malcolm envies her.

She’s as youthful as she’s ever been, and she’s aging gracefully like their mother is – not a wrinkle or gray hair in sight or a blemish that people can see. His little sister has always been perfect, and as humble as she may seem, she tends to remind him that she shines where he falls short. He likes the balance.

“What took you so long?” he asks, getting up from his chair.

Ainsley shrugs. “Looking this good doesn’t happen with some hairspray and mascara, brother. Besides, they can’t start without me.” Her smile is infectious because Malcolm smirks with her, and they reach out to pull each other into a tight hug.

Malcolm feels like he’s coming home to her, and Ainsley to him. His arms wrap around hers and her arms hold his back from under his arms. Ainsley squeezes him tightly and lays her head on his shoulder as Malcolm does the same, holding each other as if there’s no one else in the room.

To them, there isn’t.

This interview is for them, it’s their story told from the perspective of Malcolm and prompted by Ainsley. This experience is for them, and every single person standing in the room has no earthly clue of the things they’ve been through in their lives, and the things they’re still dealing with right now.

No one understands them like they understand each other.

They sway a bit without wanting to let go just yet. There’s a slight tremor running though his body as if he were cold, and Ainsley instinctively rubs her hand over his upper back. Without even realizing it, Malcolm relaxes into the touch, and his shoulders drop once he sheds the tension he’d been holding.

Eventually, they pull apart from one another.

Ainsley still lingers until he finally let’s go of her with a small smile. She curls her lips as she looks up to him, quietly letting him know that she has him. Malcolm nods, doing the same for her.

Her eyes drift from his face to his shoulder and she immediately gasps. Malcolm frowns, and looks down to see what has her startled. “What is it?” he asks, straining his neck to see whatever it is.

“I got some foundation on your suit,” she says, hissing through her teeth. “Damn it. I’m sorry, Malcolm.”

He shakes his head and starts dusting away the small patch of ivory on his suit jacket. “Its fine,” he reassures. “It’s an easy fix, see?” The last of the foundation disappears under his fingertips but he brushes the spot for extra measure. “Clean as a whistle.”

“Still, I hope it doesn’t show up under the lights. They catch every single thing,” Ainsley hunts for an assistant to help them, but Malcolm gently grabs her hands to stop her. “Ains, I told you, it’s fine. It’s just a little makeup.”

“But–”

The sound of their stage manager fills the room again.

Ainsley is pulled from Malcolm to do her own mic check and Malcolm is taken by their specialists for last minute touches as their stage manager works with the people behind the camera. Everything in the room is moving with a quickness and Ainsley’s seated in her chair before Malcolm has time to process being seated himself.

He scans the room for direction, anxiously tapping his fingers on his leg as his eyes wander. The room is suddenly quiet save for the few words exchanged behind their set, and Malcolm notices several pairs of eyes staring at him like an animal on display. It spikes his anxiety, and he can feel the tide ready to take him under.

This isn’t how he imagined this day going.

Not thinking about it is impossible. He’s mimicking Ainsley who’s sitting across from him perfectly still and waiting, but there’s cracks in his posture and skips in his breathing that trip him up. Malcolm pulls back his fingers and clasps them together with a death grip in a poor attempt to quell his nerves.

“Hey,” Ainsley whispers.

His unfocused eyes find hers. “Are you okay?” she quietly asks.

A selfish part of him wants to tell her no and leave the studio in a cab and never look back. His fight or flight response is screaming at him to walk away from this, to abandon her and focus on his own safety because that’s the priority – not a damn TV interview.

Reluctantly, Malcolm slowly nods and swallows the spit pooling in his mouth. He takes a couple of deep breaths, stealing whatever time he has left before they begin. When the stage manager sounds again, he realizes there isn’t much left.

His pulse steadies, and Ainsley’s watching him with a worried expression all while keeping her face mostly neutral. She eyes the lady coming her way and reaches out towards him, gently resting her hand on his leg. Malcolm looks down at her hand as he continues to take deep breaths. With some effort, he leans forward and places his good hand on top of hers, nodding.

He’s afraid that if he speaks right now, his voice will give him away.

The stage manager infiltrates their shared space to speak to Ainsley. Malcolm’s only half-listening, picking up on a few words at a time and putting it together through context. The world comes back at full volume even though the room is silent for the most part. Ainsley’s nodding at whatever the stage manager is telling her while asking a couple of questions along the way.

Malcolm takes this chance to silence his phone while sneaking a message to Dani. He lets her know that they’re about to start, and swears to her that he’s doing just fine. A notification pops up on his banner with an attachment and Malcolm drags the screen down to see who sent him a message.

He opens up the file and to his surprise, it’s a message from his son.

The screen stares back at him as he hesitates to open it in front of everyone.

Just as he’s about to put the audio message up to his ear, the stage manager turns around and immediately scowls at his phone. “Please put that away, Mr. Bright,” she calmly says, impatiently waiting to see it disappear.

“Sorry,” he apologizes and quickly silences his phone, then stuffs it back into his pocket. Regret sits on his stomach like a bad meal and Malcolm forces himself to stay present instead of thinking about how comforting his son’s voice would’ve been if he heard it.

He tries to ignore Ainsley obviously peeking behind the manager to watch him while she speaks. He gets a general rundown of what’s about to happen, which camera to look at and notifies him of his consent to stop the interview if he ever chooses to do so. She goes off on a short tangent but Malcolm’s too distracted by the pairs of eyes staring at them to even pay attention.

Before he knows it, she’s out of his hair. She gives the signal to start in three minutes, giving everyone enough time for last minute changes if they need them.

Ainsley sits idle in her chair across from him

“It’s really happening, isn’t it?” he asks, taking in a deep breath. “I’m surprised it took us this long to get here.”

A hand comes up behind Ainsley to fix her hair but she pays them no mind. “I know, right? I figured it would happen eventually, but I didn’t think we’d end up here. Interviewing you about a book you wrote is not how I imagined my biggest coverage going.”

Malcolm chuckles with a bit of hidden pain behind it. “Yeah,” he coughs, clearing his throat.

The stage manager sounds again. One minute.

“Where are your questions?” Malcolm asks, looking at her empty lap and the absence of paper by her feet.

Ainsley deadpans and relaxes into her chair, raising her eyebrows. “I’ve been doing this for years, Malcolm. At some point, you get good at your job.” Then she shrugs while adjusting her blazer and sits up in her chair, her back straight with her hands resting in her lap. “Then again, this is like a walk in the park. I don’t need a list when you’ve already done half of the work for me.”

Malcolm slowly nods, equally impressed and utterly terrified. “Right.”

Despite everything that they’ve experienced together in their lifetimes, some things never change.

His sister is without a doubt great at doing her job, and she’s climbed the ranks to earn the respect of her peers and the people in power who’ve put her there. She’s one of the best in her field because of how she can pull the juiciest, deepest, darkest answers from just about everyone.

He’s in awe when she gets to the true core of someone. Just not when it’s him.

“Are we ready to go?” she asks, looking over Malcolm’s shoulder at whoever’s standing there.

She’s given a thumbs up, then nods and fixes her blazer one more time. Her body relaxes into her chair as if she’s morphing into a different persona, and Malcolm mimics her posture but he instinctively crosses his legs and intertwines his fingers so they come to rest on his knee.

Cues are being signaled behind him but he focuses solely on Ainsley to avoid confusion and to keep from potentially drowning in his own racing thoughts.

The countdown begins.

An intro that the studio has put together sounds in the background mixed with witness clips, channel news soundbites, old arrest footage, and the chilling voice of The Surgeon’s sole survivor make the hairs on Malcolm’s neck stand and his palms start to sweat.

Ainsley’s listening intently while eyeing the person listening on a headset. The five second warning sounds.

Just as he hears the countdown to one, Malcolm feels as if he’s being strapped into the front of a rollercoaster he didn’t sign up for and with heavy, nauseating dread, he realizes that there’s no way off of this ride.

_This is happening._


	2. Chapter 2

Malcolm distantly wonders what he’s gotten himself into.

“Over forty years ago, Martin Whitly – infamously known as The Surgeon – was arrested in his New York home in connection to twenty three murders. Tonight is about a boy and his relation to the man who raised him, all while pretending to be the father of a picture perfect family in Manhattan’s affluent society. Watch as I uncover the truth of that fateful night firsthand, and what happened behind closed doors that made his own son make that fateful call.”

She’s given a signal from behind the camera she’s looking into, and she keeps going.

“Good evening. I’m Ainsley Whitly and this is American News Network.”

A smile graces his face as he watches his sister in real time, but he doesn’t forget for a second that _he’s_ the one sitting in the hot seat tonight.

“I’m sitting with the son of The Surgeon tonight, here to discuss his very personal tell-all book about his experience and what it was like growing up with his father who lived a double life as a serial killer. In his book “The Sins of the Father, The Son, and The Surgeon”, Malcolm Bright takes on his harrowing journey through life to find strength, love, and happiness, and how he's coping with the death of his father.”

She looks away from the camera and smiles warmly at her brother. “Malcolm Bright, it’s great to have you here.”

“Thank you for having me,” he says with a genuine smile.

Ainsley adjusts her position in her chair then flicks some of her hair out of her face and rests her hands in her lap again. She looks off to the side as if she’s lost in her train of thought, pondering which question to ask though Malcolm’s pretty sure she’s rehearsed this a thousand times by now.

Her head snaps back to him and her brows are slightly creased. The light hits her face just right like they’re in a movie but this is real life and Ainsley is known for leaving no stone unturned.

“Let’s just dive right in. The first chapter of your memoir is only five words long. You wrote, and I quote, “I wish I wasn’t born,” she says, less of a question and more of a statement. A pit opens in Malcolm, threatening to swallow him whole right there on the spot. “Why did you write that?” she asks, brows still creased.

Suddenly, the air in the room feels warmer and his throat tightens as he scrambles to find the right words to say.

“Uh,” Malcolm stutters, and he curses himself for stumbling like an idiot. He chuckles a bit and ducks his head with his hand palming his neck. “I _did_. I did write that.”

Ainsley doesn’t comment as she waits for an answer. The weight of everyone’s stares sits on his shoulders again, expecting, waiting for something that’s shock worthy enough to make it a soundbite for their commercials before this airs.

“Is that still true? Do you wish you were never born?” she gently asks. Malcolm meets her eyes and in the deep browns staring back at him, he finds his sister wondering if this is how he truly feels, and not the reporter throwing curveballs before they can properly get to the meat of this.

Malcolm steels his expression and shoves down every emotion screaming at him beneath the surface. He maintains eye contact, keeps his hands still, and steadies his voice as best as he can.

“My life has never been easy, to say the least. When you’ve lived the life I’ve had, you yearn for the simple, mundane things in life. I can’t have that. No matter how hard I try or how much I mentally prepare myself for something as simple as going out to eat, I know there’s a good chance it will go wrong one way or another.”

The stillness in the studio is uncomfortable like a wet blanket’s been placed across his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. It’s an uncomfortable feeling he’s going to have to get used to if he wants to come out on the other side of this the same way he came in.

“It’s just how it is,” Malcolm says, almost shrugging.

There’s a brief pause in between Ainsley nodding and her deciding what her next question is. Malcolm tries to read her expression but she’s being as neutral and unbiased as she can, which makes it difficult for him to profile her.

“That is a very profound way to set the tone of your memoir,” she says, tilting her head to the side a bit. “Let’s start with the basics,” Ainsley sits up in her chair and starts talking with her hands. “For those who don’t know, please reiterate who you are and your relation to The Surgeon.”

A soft question, Malcolm wishes she would’ve started with that. Easy, quick, an answer he’s given to every person who asked throughout his life.

“Of course,” he says, getting comfortable in his chair and reminding himself not to fidget so much. “My name is Malcolm Bright, but I was born Malcolm Whitly. My father is Martin Whitly, the serial killer otherwise known as The Surgeon and was responsible for the deaths of twenty three people and arrested back in 1998. I was ten years old when my father was arrested for the crimes he committed over the course of a six year period whilst raising a picture perfect family in the high society of New York.”

Ainsley nods like this is the first time she’s hearing this.

“Twenty three victims in the span of six years. During this period, he raised you to be the perfect son as any other dad would have. One minute, he’s out in the world taking the life of an innocent person, and the next, he would come home and tuck you into bed like nothing happened,” Ainsley inquires, trying to paint the big picture for the few that fail to understand.

Malcolm blinks and nods while she talks. Nothing new, nothing unheard of.

“It’s almost like he was living a double life.”

Ainsley leaves it open for interpretation, so Malcolm bites.

“I guess you could say that. But to him, this sort of went hand and hand. This _was_ his life – to him, it was just another secret that he kept to himself, because in his mind, everyone has secret desires and needs that they struggle to satisfy. For my father, this was completely normal.”

“And no one suspected your father of anything?” Ainsley asks, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.

Malcolm shakes his head, “No one suspected a thing.”

It’s hard to look back at those years when The Surgeon was active while Martin was at home, tending to his family like everything was fine. Jessica loved him as much as she did the moment they met, Ainsley has no earthly clue of life itself, and Malcolm was in his father’s study almost every night, completely fascinated with what he had to teach him.

He let his father hold him and love him with the very same hands that took the life of someone who was tormented until they couldn’t stand the pain any longer.

“So, paint me a picture of your childhood. What was he like? Everyone knows the face we see on the news reports, the mugshots, and in press photos. We know what he’s done, but he was a father before any of this.” Her eyes squint as she leans forward, completely relaxed but intrigued.

She only remembers bits and pieces of Martin before he was taken away, and Malcolm has told her several stories of what it was like to have him as a father growing up.

In his book, he shares details that are personal and guarded but safe enough to give away. He can tell she’s fishing for a story that hits a little more close to home. This is how she operates, and there’s no point in trying to be coy with his answers.

Malcolm bows his head in resignation. When he looks off to the corner of the room right behind Ainsley, a chill runs through him.

A breeze flows through the room and the studio floor melts into grass that wisps with the wind as the heat from the sun shines down on him above. Dull, gray ceilings turn blue in an instant, filling with clouds that hang over Central Park with a clarity only found in movies.

“My father meant everything to me,” Malcolm starts as he takes a walk down memory lane. Or, rather, what’s left of it.

“He was my hero, and my world revolved around him.”

* * *

Birds chirp above his head as his little feet carry him through the trees and shimmering sunlight raining down on him from above. It hits his blue sweater and white shorts just right, and illuminates his black tennis shoes like little pebbles at the bottom of a lake.

His brown hair flops with this wind, destroying the hard work of their nanny and falling on his face as he flies through the park with the biggest smile on his face.

He’s undeniably _happy._

There’s a giant, overarching tree to his left he can hide behind and a trash can near a bench to his right. A man and his daughter are perched on the bench enjoying the sun and Malcolm thinks he can get away if he blends in.

Both are _very_ good options.

“Malcolm?” Martin calls, looking everywhere else besides the little black shoes sticking out from behind a trashcan just a few yards away. “I wonder where he went.” Malcolm giggles into his palms, then peeks his head out to see his father wandering around in circles, looking absolutely clueless.

The little girl sitting on the bench mumbles something to her father before she hops down with an empty wrapper in her hand. Her pink dress covered in white polka dots and blond hair ruffles in the wind as she makes her way over to the trash can. Her pristine white shoes clacking on the ground gets Malcolm’s attention, ears perking up the closer the sound gets to him.

Then he frowns. The shoes don’t sound like his father’s. Malcolm instantly crouches down and buries his head in his knees, closes his eyes, and buries his hands in his lap as he quiets his breathing.

He can no longer hear the shoes, so he assumes that the coast is clear.

“Are you okay?” asks a sweet voice from above.

Malcolm flinches and immediately uncurls himself and looks up at the shadow that’s blocking the sun above him. He squints his eyes at the light standing over him, then he softens when the shape of a girl’s dress filters through and the light morphs into long blond hair that shines in the sunlight.

She’s _pretty._ A black bow sticks out at the top of her ponytail, fluttering with the rest of her hair that flows majestically in the wind.

She moves a few strands of hair from her face, tilting her head at the strange boy by her feet. “Are you hurt?” she asks, looking him over for scrapes and bruises.

Malcolm just shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says, getting up off the ground and dusting himself off. “I’m Malcolm.” He sticks his hand out for a handshake, something Martin taught him when he meets strangers, and his mother said it’s rude to not address a woman.

She looks at his hand with a funny look, inspecting it like he’s dirty and untrustworthy. Then she smiles and eagerly shakes his hand back. “I’m Sally!” she chimes, grinning. “That’s my dad over there,” she says, pointing to the gentleman on the bench.

“I’m playing a game with my dad! And he – oh, wait.” Swarming above her head is a beautiful blue butterfly. Its wings flutter in the wind as it flies in circles, drawing patterns in the sky until it finally lands on Sally’s black bow.

“Don’t move,” he says, taking his hands out of his pocket and raising his arms toward her face. “There’s a bug on your head.”

The second those words leave his mouth, Sally starts to scream.

She vigorously shakes her head and runs her hands through her hair while Malcolm focuses on trying to catch the butterfly holding onto her bow for dear life. Her body won’t stay still which frustrates him, and she closes her eyes as she continues to scream at the top of her lungs.

“Get it off me, get it off!” she cries.

Just as he’s about to grab the butterfly, it lets go of her bow and flies away. “It’s gone...” he mumbles as he watches it fly away.

Malcolm’s so captivated by the scene above him that he doesn’t hear the loud, distressed cries of Sally and the encroaching footsteps heading his way.

“Hey!” shouts a man from behind. Malcolm nearly jumps out of his skin and whips his head around to find an older man towering over him with his hands on his hips and the scariest expression he’s ever seen.

Sally gets up from the ground and runs over to him then buries her face in his leg, sobbing. “Oh, sweetie,” the man coos, picking her up into her arms. “What’s the matter, hm? What happened?”

Malcolm hides his hands behind his back, twisting them together awkwardly standing there, feeling like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. Then, he shoots a glare at Malcolm. “What did you do to my daughter, boy?” the man snarls.

“I’m sorry,” Malcolm blurts out, not really sure what he’s sorry for. “I didn’t mean to make her sad.” Her small hands clutch the man’s shirt, still shaken up which is not helping Malcolm’s case. Thankfully, he spots his father walking over to them with a familiar protective stare that always makes Malcolm feel safe.

“Is everything okay here?” Martin asks, standing next to Malcolm with his hand on his head. He practically sizes up the other man, but maintains his plastered smile and harmless approach. “I think your kid made my daughter upset,” he says, still glaring at Malcolm.

“I’m sure this is all just one big misunderstanding. My son wouldn’t hurt a fly, right, Malcolm?” Malcolm looks up at his father then up at the man, and slowly nods. “See? Besides, it’s not productive to scare a child into an apology.” Martin’s grin widens as he takes a step forward, eyes crinkling at the strain.

“Just take your daughter home, and we can forget this ever happened. How does that sound?”

Malcolm can’t see what his father’s doing, but whatever it is, it’s enough to make the other father go away. Martin clicks his teeth. “Grown-ups, huh?” He picks up Malcolm, and Malcolm instinctively grabs onto Martin’s neck and buries his head.

“I’m sorry,” he quietly mumbles into his shoulder.

“You’re not in trouble, Malcolm. You did the right thing,” Martin coos, rubbing his hand over his back as they walk. “Don’t let anyone talk to you like that, okay? No one. You’re _my_ son; don’t you ever forget that. You come find me, and I’ll take care of it.” Malcolm just nods, and Martin figures he’s probably still shaken up.

He gently kisses the top of his hair and brings Malcolm closer to him. “My boy.”

* * *

“He was your hero,” Ainsley quietly reiterates.

Sitting back in his chair watching the memory fade into nothing, Malcolm simply nods.

There was a time in his life where he felt safe in his father’s arms, safe from the horrors of the world while being taught the power of being the smartest one in the room. Martin was there whenever he needed him, and Malcolm could always count on his father to pick him up whenever he struggled to get back on his feet.

The memories bring more heartache and resentment than Malcolm could ever put into words.

Ainsley takes a beat before she continues.

“You talk about these wonderful moments of your childhood in the book: bonding over his work, reading at a higher level than your classmates, learning about human anatomy before the age of seven, playing with sharp objects in his study. These aren’t what you would consider “ _normal_ ” behaviors of a child that age,” she comments, gesturing with her hand for a response.

Malcolm sways his head a bit, motioning to justify his actions as a child. “I wanted to be like him, so, naturally, I gravitated towards the things he liked.”

“And no one questioned this?” she asks.

He shakes his head. “It’s like a father teaching his son how to hunt for the first time. They’re always trying to influence their sons to like their outrageous hobbies; it just so happens that my father was a well-respected surgeon who was fascinated with the limits of the human body. No one thought twice about it.”

Seemingly satisfied with her answer, Ainsley sits back in her hair and crosses her legs. Her body language continues to shift even though she’s displaying full confidence, completely headstrong while remaining calm and collected.

“You said he was fascinated with the limits of the human body. In the book, there’s a section where you talk about these strange occurrences of accidentally hurting yourself at home. You also mention that you’re not sure if they were truly accidents or might have something to do with your father?”

A chill runs through Malcolm making him shiver under his suit. A phantom pain snakes through his wrist, trailing up his arm as it throbs under his skin, pulsating with a cruel reminder of a memory too vivid to ignore. So far, he’s been doing just fine with the interview, so he’s going to try his hardest to shove it as far back as he can.

He takes a deep breath in and exhales, discreetly twisting his wrist at his side. “Yeah,” he sighs, forcing eye contact. “There were a few instances, looking back on it, that may have been clues to something more. I didn’t recognize them as a child.”

“What kind of clues? Clues to what?” she asks, leaning forward in her seat.

Malcolm tightens his hand into a fist and brings it back up to his lap. The last thing he needs is to crack and they’re not even ten minutes into the interview.

“Clues to the kind of man he was under the façade he carried while he was killing and torturing innocent people. I remember nearly breaking my wrist when I was eight,” he starts, and the rigid memory pushes through the logic till it sits at the front of his mind.

Over the years, he’s gotten better at letting memories and fragments take their course and allow his body to experience the pain that comes with them. He’s been told over and over again to let them be, instead of continuously repressing them when his brain can’t control when he sees what, or how his body will react to said memories.

He’s spent hours and hours, session after session processing what filters in and what it means, uncovering moments from his past he’s long forgotten. Here, he knows what happened, and here, he knows that Ainsley will catch him if he tries to run from the truth.

“I had just come home from school after learning I barely passed one of my exams. Whenever test scores are below satisfaction, parents get a call from the school and a detailed report of the child’s performance in class. Suffice to say, my father wasn’t exactly happy.”

In his lap, Malcolm flexes his fingers some more as the phantom pain in his wrist increases. “The thing about my father is that he’s incredibly smart, nothing gets past him. He knew about the test, and he knew how scared I was going to be when I came home with a bad report. I hated disappointing him, and I think he took advantage of that.”

Ainsley’s expression softens. Not out of pity, but sympathy.

No child likes to disappoint their parents, especially at a young age. They want their parents to be proud of them, to praise them, to have their feelings and achievements validated. The weight of that must’ve crushed him.

“At the time, I didn’t have the capacity to know this was his way of manipulating me, I was just a _kid_. Every time my grades weren’t satisfactory, I’d get bruises from tripping over my feet or scratches from my desk, or, one time, I was putting on my shoes and there was a thumbtack wedged in the side of it.” He winces at hearing himself say that out loud. “It was like a little game to him, one I didn’t know I was playing.”

Her frown deepens even more with genuine concern, enough to make her lean back in her chair in disbelief. “A _thumbtack_ in your _shoe_?” she asks incredulously.

“Well,” he starts, waving his hands as he tries to explain. “I didn’t think anything of it. I left my shoes in his study one night, so I just assumed it must’ve fallen from his desk and got caught in the crevice of it.”

Ainsley pauses with her mouth slightly agape. “You _do_ realize how absurd that is, right?”

He solemnly nods, more at her reaction than recalling what actually happened. Most of what he says is already in the book, told in a way more clear and precise fashion than his live retelling. Malcolm notes the crack in her professionalism as a concerned little sister reaching out, but he doesn’t make it worse by pointing it out or acting on it.

“The sad part is...I would run back to him every single time and he always made it all better,” he says, slumping back in his chair. His eyes drift to the corner behind Ainsley’s head, staring in distant thought. “He had a cure for everything, and I was too naïve to see it as something deeper than that.”

Dejected, Malcolm’s head slumps to the side a bit, and he catches a glimpse of his sister peeking through to make sure he’s okay even though this happened when they were kids.

“Was it all a lie?” Ainsley quietly asks. “You mention quite a few times how much your father loved you, especially as a child. If these “accidents” are deliberate punishments, then is his love for you just another lie he kept hidden all those years?”

It’s a simple question with an extremely complex answer he doesn’t feel like delving into just yet. He briefly wonders if it’s something that she ought to save for the end, but as he put it, she knows what she’s doing, and with Ainsley, there’s always a method to the madness.

For a moment, Malcolm wracks his brain for an answer that will suffice. She has him in a corner with no easy way out, which forces him to come up with something that will keep the flow going while keeping the viewers interested.

The longer he takes to come up with something, the more he starts to realize he hasn’t said a word in almost a minute.

He scrambles to gather himself for the cameras, doing his best to look deep in thought when there’s absolutely nothing running through his head. He instantly remembers the little pep talk Dani gave him this morning before they went their separate ways.

She told him to be honest and upfront, but to remember that not every question deserves an answer. He can be as truthful as he wants to be, because he doesn’t need to perform for millions when the people that matter the most are waiting for him at home with open arms. There’s no need to bear his scars when he doesn’t have to.

“I don’t know if I can answer that,” he says eventually. He knows it’s a lackluster response, but at least it’s an honest one.

It takes a second for Ainsley to say something. She’s probably debating how to move on when there’s nothing to go off of, and Malcolm finds some comfort in getting the upper hand for once. He guesses this would be the perfect spot for a jump cut.

If he’s being honest, her silence makes him nervous. He can feel the heat rising through his body under his suit thanks to the overhead lights and the perpetual fear of Ainsley playing a game of cat and mouse with him, even though he’s not equipped to fumble his sister. This is her area of expertise, and Malcolm is merely putty in her hands.

Eventually, her expression returns to its neutral look with a gaze in her eyes that displays an emotion Malcolm can’t quite place.

“Your father deliberately found ways to torture you as a child.” The base in her voice deepens enough for Malcolm to catch onto it, and he wonders if the statement came from a place of professionalism or furious personal sentiment. The emptiness in her stare suggests the latter.

The accusation garners a frown from Malcolm, and he slightly raises his hands up from his lap in surrender. “That sounds a bit extreme, if I’m being honest.”

His words catch her off guard, and she leans back, baffled by his apathetic approach. She wants to rebut and say something, but her mouth opens and closes as the words die on her tongue and simmer back into her throat. It’s one thing to read about this in the book; it’s another thing to see the product up close and ask her brother about some of the things he’s never told her.

It almost feels like betrayal, considering how close they are.

“How is that considered extreme? How is that extreme compared to everything else he’s done to you?” she asks, yet it comes from his little sister and not the journalist who set this interview in the first place.

The fire in her features, the way that her brow furrows and her eyes pinch when she’s upset. How she sits when she’s not getting her point across. Malcolm knows he should’ve let it go, because it’s not worth arguing over something he hears practically every single day.

His mouth barely opens before Ainsley takes her opportunity to drill an answer out of him and cuts him off.

“How about the part in the book where you talk about your missing time?” she questions, raising her eyebrows.

He anticipated questions like these before the interview even started – he’s just surprised at how quickly they delved into it. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll bite. I think it was around the age of nine when I began to see a shift in my father. Not so much himself, but in his actions.”

_“Dad?” Malcolm asks with a tremor in his voice. Edging towards the mysterious chest sitting in their basement right outside of his father’s playroom, Malcolm inches closer to the quiet gasps and whimpers emitting from the trunk. “Dad, what’s in here?”_

_The hot cocoa in his mug is just about finished, but it sways from side to side in his hand as he leans over the abandoned trunk. Her voice echoes underground in soft, desperate chokes, and Malcolm turns his head to see if his father heard them, too._

Another chill runs through the room but Malcolm doesn’t flinch. He continues the story, settling in a place that separates his emotions from the vivid memory of his father’s strong hands.

“I became a bit too curious. My father loved it when I asked him questions about his work, but the longer I lingered down there, the more I began to notice the small changes. He could see that, and he realized that I was too smart for my own good.”

Ainsley leans in like she’s interested, as if she hasn’t heard this story before.

“And what did he do?” she asks.

Malcolm bitterly swallows the lump in his throat. “My father tried to silence me.”

_The latch comes undone by the force of his tiny fingers. Carefully, Malcolm sets his cocoa down on the ground right beside him and places both of his hands on the separate ends of the smooth leather. His heart thuds in his chest, his gut telling him to leave this alone, but he heard a girl crying to be free, and he can’t ignore her pleas for help._

_Mustering all of the strength he has, Malcolm pries the hood of the trunk open. His eyes widen as it slowly starts to reveal the pieces of a pale, crumbled body of a woman lying in just her underwear. The heat radiates off of her skin, a telltale sign that she’s still alive and–_

_This girl is still alive, she’s still breathing–_

_Her heartbeat floods his ears, and he drowns in a sea of emotions he’s too young to understand. Malcolm screams._

“In what way did he try to silence you, Malcolm?” Ainsley asks, peering into his distant eyes.

_His scream never makes it past the brick walls._

_It’s cut off by a cloth covered in something sweet that restricts his airways, and his body is hoisted into the air by the strong hands that tucked him into last night._

_The loss of oxygen sends his body into fight mode, Malcolm kicks his little legs and screams against the force of a heavy hand to wedge himself free but he’s failing._

_The sweet smell guides him home to the darkness clouding his vision and away from the scary hand that’s gripping him. The fear makes his heart pound against his chest as his body gives in and sinks under a tingling numbness that lulls him further away from reality._

_In the last stretches of consciousness, the soft, chilling voice of his father guides him through it. “Shh,” he coos. “It’s all going to be okay.”_

Somehow, the studio seems quieter.

In his distant awareness, Malcolm can feel a thickness settle in the air above him. The atmosphere changes into something heavy and uncomfortable, sucking the life out of everyone that’s watching him because it’s their job. Maybe it’s in the pitiful look his sister’s giving him, or perhaps it’s the uneasy expression from their stage manager from behind the cameraman.

He guesses that they haven’t read the book.

Malcolm’s eyes wander around the room like a lost dog, wondering why everyone was looking at him with the same sad expression. The fact that no one dares to speak sends a spark of irritation through him – he hasn’t been in the spotlight in _years_. Especially not like this.

“Your father drugged you,” Ainsley cuts in. Her words are slow, basically recanting what he just said, except with more emphasis.

His mouth hangs agape for a split second, then he regains his composure and follows her lead. “Yes.”

“ _Repeatedly_ drugged you.”

“Yes.”

Ainsley takes a beat, mouth falling open in shock. She’s clearly doing this for dramatic effect, and it almost makes his eyes roll.

“My father repeatedly drugged me as a child to confuse me, to silence me when I got too close to the truth.”

“And all of this happened just before his arrest?”

Malcolm leans back into his chair as he thinks on the question while discreetly trying to ground himself so the camera doesn’t catch it. He follows the shadow by Ainsley’s head and uses it as an anchor to keep his focus forward. “I think the drugging started a few months before the arrest? I’m still not clear on the timeline before it happened – I still haven’t been able to recover those memories yet.”

It starts with the trip to the woods. The infamous camping trip that started his descent into the truth, another man who was too eager for the hike his father promised him, and a large moving bag chained up to the back of their station wagon. He has relived this nightmare over and over for years now.

It only made sense to put in the book.

“I haven’t recovered the memories – it’s a work in progress, but I’ve made some headway in the past couple of years. At the time, I was blissfully unaware that my father was taking me into the woods with another serial killer, but it’s good to have friends with similar interests I guess. In the back of our station wagon was the body of a woman, something I suspected but was too scared to admit as the truth.”

Probably for his safety, the camping trip itself is a giant blur. He doesn’t remember when they got there, when they left, or much of anything that happened during that time.

“What else did you see?” she asks.

A flash, a broken fragment whistles by him. “Um,” he stumbles, trying to collect his thoughts into something coherent.

“We made a stop in New Jersey to pick up some things – he was so excited for me to join him that he bought me a switchblade. Then, we were in an old cabin. My dad set up his work station in the basement while his friend periodically disappeared in and out of the house. One minute, the bag from the car is there, the next minute it’s gone.”

His mind begins to blur a bit, struggling to pull slivers of time to the forefront. “I don’t know what happened, or how I got there, but his friend was nowhere to be found. My father and I were kneeling in front of–” He squeezes his eyes shut at the oncoming headache. Ainsley watches his hand go up to his temple and rub it with his fingers. “–a body, I think.”

That garners a reaction from the crew behind the cameras. Not that Malcolm could see it. Out of pure impulse, Ainsley’s eyes drift off behind Malcolm’s head to read what their stage manager is saying, but it’s too dark to decipher, so she switches her focus back to Malcolm.

“You said, you were kneeling on the ground in the woods in front of a body? A human body?” she reiterates, slightly exaggerating her words and mimicking surprise.

Still rubbing at his temples, Malcolm hums in agreement. “I don’t know if she was alive or unconscious. I can’t even remember what her face looked like.”

“How do you know it was a woman?”

“I saw long hair sticking out from under her. I remember a jacket, black, not made for the elements. My blade – I had my switchblade, and he was making me hold the knife to her.” The tremors force him to put his hand back in his lap.

“What did you do?” He picks his head up to look at Ainsley. “What did you do to her?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just remember feeling so scared and I just – I don’t know. I don’t know. My father...I don’t know. I think it was some kind of test.”

Satisfied with her soundbite, Ainsley pushes forward. “A test? What was he trying to do?”

“He wanted to see if I was just like him.”

Ainsley takes a beat.

“Well, _are you_?”

Malcolm quickly shakes his head. “No,” he breathes out. “I am not my father.”

It’s made clear by his shaky hand that she’s hit a nerve. She’s not going to pretend like it wasn’t what she’s trying to dig for, but being the cause for his distress almost makes her feel guilty enough to apologize.

Sensing the uncomfortable tension in the room, Ainsley switches to an easier question, one that already has an answer to it.

“So, let’s talk about the arrest. Walk me through that night in nineteen ninety-eight when your father was arrested in your home.”

If anything, it’s a formal question he’s been asked to relay a thousand times over. He’s built up a resistance to it – as well as the chloroform – to a point where the answer naturally falls from his lips.

His mind reels in a time that still feels like yesterday. That night has haunted him for years, and it still does to this day. It comes to him at night in messy fragments pieced together without warning, and every night he’s subjected to his father’s gruesome horror, he’s thankful for the seatbelt that keeps him strapped in.

He drags his tongue over his lips to moisten them, feeling the draft get colder in the room.

“I don’t remember exactly what happened. However, I do remember walking through the living room in a daze. Don’t know where I came from, but I knew I needed to get to the phone or else...” Malcolm trails off in thought. The heart-pounding anxiety settles in as if he were there, his mind a mess of everything that it leaves him with the fear of being caught – of being _next_.

Ainsley’s head cocks to the side while she studies his blank expression. “Or else what?”

“I’m not sure,” he says slowly. “I’m not sure what I was so afraid of, but I knew I just had to get to the phone. When I did, I dialed and waited until a woman picked up asking what the emergency was. For the first few seconds, I didn’t speak; too nervous about _actually_ doing it.”

Malcolm swallows thickly before continuing. “But I told her what I saw. I told her what I saw in the basement, and she said that she’ll send someone to come check it out. She reassured me, and I gave her the address to our house.”

“And then what did you do?” Ainsley asks.

Malcolm shrugs a bit. “I waited.”

After all of these years, the dread of his father figuring him out while he waited for someone to save him continues to constrict his breathing. He stayed in the kitchen with one of their maids who was in the middle of cleaning.

His father’s footsteps echoed throughout the house when he emerged from his playroom and into the living room with a request for tea. Malcolm anxiously watched as she started a fresh kettle.

“It took nine minutes. I know because I counted. Nine minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. My father answers it personally when he hears the officer announce that he’s with the N.Y.P.D. I came up behind my father and stood there as they talked, and he reassured the officer that everything was fine. He even invited him to sit down for tea,” he says, flexing his cramping hand.

“And, as we know, tea laced with ketamine is how The Surgeon incapacitated his victims.”

He nods at Ainsley, then continues. “I stood by the officer and watched my father pour him a cup from the other side of the house, then waited until he was occupied. My body wouldn’t stop shaking but I knew I had to do it, I was running out of time and I would never get a chance like this ever again,” he says, finally balling his trembling hand into a fist.

“I told the officer to draw his gun, and he thought I was joking. I looked him in his eyes and told him that my father wasn’t interested in chatting – that my father was going to kill him. Then the rest is history.”

Ainsley herself remembers the night. It’s in broken fragments clouded by unnamed chaotic emotions she can’t explain while sitting in the arms of her mother, watching it all happen.

Strange men in her home, badges asking their mother questions she didn’t have the answers to, and the flashing lights from cop cars and greedy paparazzi blinding her. It overwhelmed her immensely.

“Get him out of here!” screamed her mother, voice loud in her ear. Ainsley’s head falls on her shoulder as she buries her face in the crook of her mother’s neck where it’s safe. Her dad is talking to her brother but she can’t hear them over the commotion.

But when her dad gets dragged away in handcuffs, she catches a quick glimpse of her brother standing in the middle of the foyer watching their dad get ripped from their life. Jessica walks off with Ainsley to another room, saying that she’s seen enough and needs to be sent back to bed.

It’s not her place to say what she saw and what she experienced that night. This is about Malcolm, she knows this. Still, she wishes she could tell him about it.

She wishes she could tell him how his blank stare haunted her for days, how her big brother was no longer the boy she grew up with, but someone entirely different.

She prayed to her angels that everything would turn back to normal – that they could be a family again. Her hopes at a normal life disappeared with the boots that turned the corners, leaving no trace behind.

“It’s just like that: one minute he's this loving father of two, and then the next minute, he's all these horrible things you see on TV.”

“Correct,” he says, nodding.

“I mean, just about every person in New York knew who the Whitly family was before the arrest, the Milton estate had been there for generations – and suddenly, your family is on the front page of every news article and every broadcasting station around the country.”

The memories of flashing lights, insistent reports crowding their home for photos, and the obnoxious television reports that were labeling his father like he’s some sinner who’s done an awful deed. Of course he did – there was no denying it now. But to see his father become someone so entirely different, in the span of minutes was jarring and surreal, too much to take in at once.

“They arrested The Surgeon in connection to twenty three murders. Do we have reason to believe there were more?” she asks, even though she already knows the answer.

“Victims, yes. Bodies are a different story. The police have had their suspicions, but otherwise, some of those cases have gone cold and some families never got justice for their loved ones. For example, in the book, I talk about a woman who was kidnapped and tortured by my father.”

“The girl in the box,” Ainsley adds, and Malcolm nods.

“I was never supposed to find her. In fact, she was supposed to be a gift to me,” Malcolm says, sighing.

Even though there isn’t supposed to be talking on set, Malcolm can hear the murmurs and catch wandering eyes without moving his head an inch. They _seriously_ need to read the book.

“The Surgeon was grooming me to become his little protégé, his prodigal son, if you will. Obviously that didn’t happen, seeing as his master plan went up in flames that night. The second he was taken from my family, our lives drastically changed and our family name was never to be uttered in public.”

Ainsley shifts in her chair, accommodating the crook in her neck and opts to sit up straight. Listening to Malcolm retell the story of the worst night of his life breathes a new kind of sorrow she hasn’t felt in years.

He tells it like he’s experiencing this for the first time, and his emotions are far removed to protect himself from the horrors of that night, from the screams of his father, and those stupid three words that made him lose sleep for decades.

_We’re the same._


	3. Chapter 3

“That must’ve been hard to deal with as a child,” she says softly, voice low with sympathy.

“It was,” he sighs.

“What was that like? How hard was going back to school for you now that everyone knew that your father was a serial killer?” The last bit of her question hangs on her tongue with enough curiosity for Malcolm to snuff out her need for a compelling story. He’s talking to his sister now, not the interviewer.

His hand starts to twitch again at the thought of school, and he hides it under his palm. Ainsley catches him tucking it away but her eyes flicker back up to his face like it’s nothing. She can tell he’s uncomfortable, but they both know there’s no turning back from here.

“In short, those were the worst years of my life. No child should ever experience what I went through.”

* * *

Setting his bag down in his gym locker, Malcolm pulls out the gray shirt and navy shorts sitting perfectly folded in the locker.

He hates his gym period with a passion – all of the boys are rowdy, obnoxious and immature. He and his father once had a conversation about the body maturing once a child reaches puberty and how their moods are affected by the sudden changes. The concept sounds like an excuse for boys to be assholes.

As he’s undressing to change into his other clothes, Malcolm surveys his body and compares it to the older boys. He’s still growing like many of his peers, but he envies the muscles of his seniors and how masculine they come across.

He wishes he had that kind of confidence.

The second he puts his shorts on, he can feel the heat radiating off of someone standing too close behind him and he tenses up and freezes.

Not again.

“Hey, Whitly,” snarls a boy from behind, breath hot and uncomfortable on his neck. It’s the same boy who makes it his mission to torture him almost every day, fueled by his overwhelming hatred for his family name. There’s a rage in that boy that terrifies Malcolm.

Malcolm keeps his mouth shut like he always does, never speaking unless it’s for something important or an adult is addressing him. Not for bullies that constantly pick on him whenever they get the chance to.

“Not speaking today? I heard a rumor that you were chatting it up with that fag Connor yesterday. What did you guys talk about?” the boy asks, pressing his body against Malcolm’s back. His hot breath on Malcolm’s neck makes him want to gag and ball up his fists to stop him but he can’t. He’s frozen, and his body won’t move.

“Did you talk about me?” he says, cruelly in his ear.

Malcolm says quiet.

“Fine. Since you don’t want to talk, I’ll make you.”

Before Malcolm has a chance to think of a way out, he’s being yanked by his shirt and shoved to the ground, his head nearly missing the lockers on the way down. His arm twists uncomfortably under his body, breaking his fall, but Malcolm knows that this is only the start of whatever he had planned for him today.

“Get up, Whitly!”

When he looks up, there’s a small crowd gathering as well as a few boys standing behind the one that shoved him like accomplices.

“I said, get up!” Then, the boy is on the ground with him, sitting on top of his stomach with the scariest look on his face and rage to match; it’s all about power here, and Malcolm never had any to begin with. His vision blackens in an instant as the boy’s fists pound into Malcolm’s body with heated aggression, hitting everything vital and never missing the important areas.

He’s moving so quick, so fast that Malcolm can’t hear the chants and laughs from the other boys over his own shame and embarrassment. Tears leak out of his swollen eye down his cheeks as he lays there unmoving and helpless, receiving the blows of another child even though his father taught him how to defend himself _years_ ago.

He can’t fight now. He doesn’t _want_ to fight. He doesn’t want to give these kids a show – he doesn’t want to prove them right. They see a monster in him, everyone does. Fighting back would only make things worse, and he already hates being at school.

He just has to take it.

“You like that, huh?” the snarls as he strikes Malcolm’s gut with a particularly hard punch. “Hit me, Whitly! Or are you too scared to fight?” The boy painfully grips a handful of Malcolm’s hair and tugs it to the side, pulling at Malcolm’s scalp, making him cry out in searing pain and tears fall faster down his face.

“I bet you let Connor hit you like this. I bet it felt good, didn’t it? _Didn’t it_?” he yells, landing one final blow to his face with a sickening crack behind his knuckles. “Fucking weirdo.”

Eventually, a coach comes into the locker room and hauls the boy off of Malcolm, screaming at the other boys to wait outside in the gym while another coach escorts his assailant out. “You’re nothing but a freak, Whitly!” shouts the boy as he exits the room. “A freak, _you hear me_?”

Malcolm just curls in on himself to hide his body from being seen, from being looked at with pity and disgust. The coach is talking to him but there’s only a fuzzy ringing in his ears that escalates as seconds pass. He wants to scream.

Tears continue to flow as he silently cries to himself with his head buried in his chest and his small arms hugging his knees to his chest. Everything hurts.

Lying in fetal position isn’t making his ribs feel any better, and his chest heaves with no air while he gasps to control his crying. The concrete ground feels cool against his swollen eye and his throbbing head, pounding at the base of his skull.

A strong hand taps him on his back and he immediately flinches at the touch, shrieking. The coach tries to get his attention but Malcolm curls in on himself further, hands scrambling to his stomach to brace himself for another blow. When it doesn’t come, Malcolm trembles in anticipation for the next touch, tears quietly streaming down his face.

He lays on the floor for what feels like hours, wading in the silence by himself, distantly thinking of his father walking through the doors and picking him up in his arms to take him home. Except, this is all happening because of him.

So, Malcolm remains on the cold floor, sobbing in his chest, hurting and alone.

* * *

His head falls to his chest like it did that same day, his hand tremor more prominent than what it was a few minutes ago. Ainsley’s brows dip in genuine sympathy; she finds no pleasure in watching her brother crumble in pain. As much as she wants to reach across the way and take his hand in hers, she can’t break her position in the interview – this is already being hit with concerns of bias.

Still, at the end of the day, he’s her best friend.

“That’s horrible. Absolutely horrible to hear, Malcolm. And this went on for months?”

“Years,” he corrects her.

She practically gasps at that, genuinely infuriated at the things he’s telling her. “Why didn’t you defend yourself?” she asks, even though she already knows the answer to that.

Malcolm’s head tilts back as she shuts his eyes, pinching his nose. Then, he sighs, feeling fatigue simmer in his bones. “The world had written me off as my father’s apprentice. Proving them right was only going to make things more complicated.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

He shakes his head. “My homeroom teacher called me Satan’s spawn in the middle of class. Suffice to say I wasn’t keen on talking to her,” he says with a smile. “People had their minds made up about me. As young as I was, I had no choice but to believe it. If every person brands me as something ‘other’ – freak, killer, monster, whatever they could come up with – then, it must be true.”

Ainsley’s back collides with the chair and her arms cross over her lap, listening. She lets him talk through his experience without interruptions or easy questions to bait the audience.

“I became mute after my father was arrested. The pressure of being in the spotlight at such a young age ruined me. So, I shut down. For months, I never spoke and kept to myself. All of my friends disappeared, I became a punching bag for the older kids, and I couldn’t confide in any of the adults at school – they looked at me like I was something _other than_. I had no one to turn to. I was alone.”

He talks about the countless psychiatrist visits his mother subjected him to, and the slew of therapists that were recommended by doctors but continuously fell through.

After one _very_ bad appointment with a psychiatrist and several diagnoses later, he stopped eating all together and he barely left his room other than to use the bathroom. After weeks of isolating himself, his meals suddenly started changing.

His mother was less strict with what he and Ainsley ate. Not every dinner was some fancy dish from a foreign country – it could be as simple as soup and sandwiches. One change he thoroughly enjoyed was the addition of jello to his breakfast. He never understood why it was always lemon-flavored, but over time, the taste grew on him with every meal.

Waking up to deal with this new painful reality made him want to stay curled up in his sheets forever. But now, with his little treat waiting for him every morning, he at least had something to look forward to.

On the other hand, Jessica had her own fair share of distaste for some of the “highly recommended” suggestions. Just about every single one treated Malcolm like a charity case, or she even caught a few that spoke behind their backs, saying that her son deserved whatever’s coming to him.

As exhausting, lonely and frustrating as the entire process was, every psychiatrist he went to wrote him numerous prescriptions.

Behind closed doors, she heavily disagreed with feeding her child horse pills when he hadn’t even aged out of his school yet. Even so, the bottom line was simple: pills, or face the reality of losing your son to depression (among other things). Others would say worse.

A few days later, she came home with one fresh orange bottle of medication that burned a hole through her purse the entire car ride home. She knew he would instantly reject the pills if she told him what they were for, and in her eyes, she just couldn’t risk losing her son to the war waging in his mind.

So, she got her morning staff on board with finding ways to incorporate his medication without him knowing. Jello was an instant favorite, and in no time, she was personally crushing his pills and sprinkling it over a small dish full of lemon jello cubes. One of her maids suggested the flavor to drown the chalky taste, and to Jessica’s relief, it turned out to be a huge success.

To this day, Jessica has never told Malcolm why she allowed him to have jello first thing in the morning. Even after his father’s big secret became the ruin of their family, she learned that some things are better left unsaid.

Then the questions shifted to Malcolm and his mental health as school progressed and he grew older.

For a few minutes, everything seems fine. She drifts off to the topic of being sent off to boarding school, asking him why his mother decided to send him away; the reason isn’t written in the book, and last she recalls, she doesn’t remember her mother telling her why Malcolm was abruptly sent away.

When she prompts him to answer, he fumbles.

Hanging off the side of his legs, his hand starts to tremble with enough force to make him clutch his fist; while blood pulses through his body and his heart beats in his ears. “Uh,” he mutters, and Ainsley swears he sounds like he’s out of breath. He sits up in his seat, leaning his head on his free hand in a desperate attempt to remain focused. “What were you saying?”

He doesn’t actually care for the answer, and Ainsley knows it. Her lips press in a tight line and her brows furrow, quickly realizing she probably triggered a land mine that hasn’t been touched in ages.

Malcolm’s hand shakes with nervous energy as he removes his head from his hand to readjust his suit jacket and sit back in the chair even though he hasn’t moved an inch.

At this point, his fidgeting is extremely noticeable. The stage manager eyes Ainsley from behind the scenes, vaguely gesturing to Malcolm but her eyes flicker back to her brother who’s finding it hard to breathe.

“Are you–”

“I just – I just need some air.”

She can feel his urgency to leave, and she immediately makes a cutting motion with her hand across her neck to her stage manager behind the cameras. She nods, then mumbles something to another technician before she makes an announcement. “Let’s take five!”

Ainsley tries to reach over to him but her hand stops halfway when Malcolm scans the room for an exit. She doesn’t get a chance to say anything to Malcolm because he’s up out of his chair the second the cameras stop rolling.

Stumbling through the halls of the studio unaware of where his feet are taking him, Malcolm searches for a quiet spot to crash. The pulsing in his ears makes it hard to concentrate, but in his haze he finds his way back to the empty room he was in only twenty minutes ago. He nearly falls over trying to push the door open.

Malcolm collapses against a wall and slides down to the floor, until his butt hits the ground and his body slacks underneath the pressure of his burning lungs. _God, there’s not enough air._

He needs something to focus on, something to distract him from the slew of memories assaulting his psyche with the pain of being fourteen dressed in white. It’s in the past – he _knows_ it’s in the past – but it still hurts and the scars he carries from that time won’t magically go away with some antiseptic and gauze.

Then his phone buzzes in his pocket. _The audio clip._

He plucks his phone from his tightened pocket and puts the speaker up to his ear and anxiously waits for the sound he’s been yearning to hear all morning.

The audio file crackles. Then, the familiar sound of hallways filled with chattering students surrounds his ears and it brings a smile to his face.

“Hey, dad.”

His heart thuds in his chest and his ears perk up at the comforting sound of his son.

“I didn’t get to see you this morning; sorry about that. I left a bit earlier with some friends and mom said you wanted to sleep in so I didn’t want to wake you up. Um, I’m about to head to lunch right now – I just got done with homeroom and you won’t _believe_ how much homework I have to do. That lady is on something, I swear!”

It earns a hearty chuckle from Malcolm, and some of his anxiety disappears in it. He doesn’t remember his son using that phrase before, and he wonders if it’s something he picked up from Dani or JT.

There’s a pause on the other end, and Malcolm slightly panics, hoping it’s not the end of the audio clip.

“Anyways, just wanted to say good luck on your interview today. Mom said you could use some cheering up, so...this is me...cheering you up, I guess. Um,” he awkwardly laughs and it just makes Malcolm smile even more.

“Yeah, I’m going to lunch but I’ll text you later. Love you, bye.”

The clip ends and his phone goes silent against his ear. He impulsively pulls the phone away and plays the clip again, fawning over every little thing about his son that makes him unique.

It takes off some of the pressure of his nagging doubts about how well of a parent he’s been – a constant thought he’s had since the day his son was born – and so far, he would like to think he and Dani have done a decent job compared to most.

His son’s voice calms him immensely, filling his chest with so much warmth and love that he could bask it in for days. He can’t deny the strength it gives him to push forward, to finish what he started, and to come out stronger than how he entered.

From Dani’s constant reassurance to his son’s good-natured words of encouragement, Malcolm feels more grounded than he’s felt since he walked into the studio.

_How did I get so lucky?_

Picking himself up off the floor, Malcolm dusts his suit off and rearranges his crooked tie. He stuffs his phone back into his pocket and takes a big deep breath in, then exhales. The world comes back to him in fuzzy bits and pieces, forming to create one large hill that he has yet to climb over. He’s not even halfway to the top.

Even so, he knows there’s no room for complaining – he did that earlier.

He brushes himself off and heads for the door, pushing the rising wave of embarrassment down and steels his face so he can preserve what’s left of his dignity. Even though he’s dealt with moments like these his entire life, his insecurity and pride are always the first to go, and it feels like he’s lost his sense of control.

The hallways are quiet except for the sound of his heels clacking on the tile floors as he pushes through the dread of having to show his face again. The walk back is short, and the second he steps back into the room, the overwhelming weight of everyone’s stares turns his stomach into anxious knots.

He _hates_ feeling seen. But, he supposes it’s already too late for that, too.

The stage manager spots him from across the room and radios something into her earpiece. He keeps his head down as he walks over to his chair, and fans out his suit jacket before sitting back down under the harsh studio lights.

The specialists working on him earlier crowd him as soon as they spot him, and they make quick work of touching up his face before he has a chance to say anything to Ainsley.

It looks like she hasn’t left her chair. She’s frowning, her fingers fervently tapping all over the screen and without stopping for a break in her ongoing paragraph. He presumes it’s about him or an emergency happening elsewhere, but he’s pretty confident it’s the former.

She continues to type on her phone, seemingly unaware that he’s back in the room, so Malcolm just sits there with his hands folded in his lap and his head down.

A heat sweeps through his body and he wonders if it’s coming from the overhead lights or the heat of just about everyone’s gaze on him. He’s felt their stares the entire time so it’s to be expected. However, his little incident from earlier is costing him more social points than he ever wanted when he first walked in this morning.

It’s annoying and slightly humiliating.

His sister comes to a stopping point in her frantic typing and stashes her phone away in her pocket. When she does, her head lifts and he can see the relief in her eyes but her body stiffens as if she got caught doing something she shouldn’t.

“Hey,” she nearly whispers. “Is everything okay?”

His hands go up in mock surrender. “I’m fine, Ains. You don’t need to worry about me,” he whispers back, keeping their conversation quiet from prying eyes.

“Was it something I said?”

“Ainsley, I told you I’m fine–”

“You can _tell_ me, Malcolm. I don’t want to trigger something like that again – I’ll take it out of my notes if you want me to.” Her eyes widen in desperation, trying to pry an answer from her brother even though he insists that he’s okay when he clearly isn’t. “What do you want me to cut out? I can axe certain questions or skip over portions in the book?”

Taking in her offer, Malcolm’s hand grabs his chin and his head slowly falls in thought as he thinks it over.

Before the interview itself, Ainsley never gave him a specific list of questions or told him which topics she plans on harboring on, so she could guarantee genuine reactions and real answers. With that in mind, he doesn’t want to ruin her process for the sake of his own comfort. It would defeat the entire purpose of an interview.

Eventually, he makes up his mind and decides to wave her off. “It’s fine, Ains.”

Over his shoulder, Ainsley can see their stage manager motioning for her to hurry up, so they can continue the interview. Her head whips to Malcolm and then back to the stage manager as she motions her hand a bit faster. A bit of anxiety creeps up at the urgency to move forward.

She wants to wait on her brother but she also knows that if she doesn’t make the call to start soon, their manager will do it for them, but she doesn’t want to continue if he’s not ready.

“Is that part going to be cut?” he quietly asks. His eyes are downcast with a hand rubbing at the back of his neck in slow circles. She looks back at him, lips slightly parted and her words hanging on her tongue. His life has already been publicized enough; he doesn’t need the rest of the world taking something else from him.

Her head falls, and her heart aches for what he’s feeling right now. Just as she’s about to reach over and grab his hand, she jumps at the voice shouting over them.

“Two minutes! We’re starting in two minutes!”

Ainsley catches the gaze of their stage manager and gives her the dirtiest look she can muster. Then, she turns back to Malcolm.

“It won’t make it off the editing room floor. I’ll make sure of it.”

The next couple minutes are spent in silence as their production team works to reset their camera angles and run a quick sound check for Malcolm. When they’re ready to begin, the stage manager calls time, and she begins her countdown for the cameras to roll.

Malcolm readjusts himself to get comfortable in his chair and tries to focus on moving forward instead of his embarrassing mishap. The stage manager goes quiet on her two count, and the cameras begin rolling.

Ainsley crosses her legs with her hands back in her lap and gets comfortable in her chair.

“I want to move on to a lighter topic. In the book, you consistently talk about the man who saved you the night of the arrest; a police officer. You have him written down as a sort of – a father figure, if you will. He’s still in your life today. Who is he to you?”

For a second, Malcolm doesn’t say anything. He looks off to the side, unable to hold back his smile with the warmth that flutters through him. His smile is contagious, because Ainsley can’t help but smile, too.

“Um,” he starts, trying to find the right words to say. Then, when a recent memory pops into his head, he chuckles to himself. “Sorry,” he says, clearing his throat behind his fist.

“What were you thinking about just now?”

She still has a lingering smile on her face and her eyes boring into him with expectation, making his cheeks heat up. “I just remember something he said to me the other day. He’s terrible at telling jokes, and this one was so bad that my wife and I were still laughing on the way home from his place.”

He swats his hand in the air as if to get rid of the memory. “But, to answer your question – he’s everything to me. A role model, caregiver, a father; there’s so much I could say about him, but I don’t think I would be able to express my love and gratitude for him in titles.”

“Why is that?”

The encompassing emotions of his feelings toward Gil simply can’t be put into words. He’s quiet again, mouth still curled up in a wistful smile. The studio hums in silence while they wait for him to answer, every person on the edge of their seats waiting for a juicy soundbite.

Then, he relaxes his fingers in his lap and clasps them together, and looks her right in the eyes. “I don’t know if I would be alive if it weren’t for him.”

* * *

He’s hiding under the covers when he hears a knock at the front door, and the sound of a familiar voice following. He knows who it is, and it makes him curl even tighter into a ball and close his eyes as he strains to hear any movement.

For a few minutes, the house is completely silent. Malcolm uncurls himself for a bit, thinking that the voice is going to leave and he doesn’t have to cower under the covers.

Then, he hears heavy footsteps getting closer to his door, and Malcolm scrambles to make himself smaller under his sheets. He wishes he were invisible.

He flinches at the soft knocks on the door. “Malcolm?”

If he were invisible, no one would notice. No one would check on him. No one would care.

They knock again, this time a little louder. “Malcolm, it’s me. Detective Arroyo. It is okay if I come in?”

After a few seconds, the knob on the door begins to turn and Malcolm tries to bury himself deeper in his sheets because the _last_ thing he wants right now is someone invading his space. Especially if it’s _him_.

Slowly, the door creaks open, and Malcolm can’t decide if he’s terrified of being forced into a conversation he doesn’t want or if he’s frustrated that his personal space is being invaded without his permission.

He tracks the sound of his feet as they move across the floor. When the door shuts, he hears the latch turn, locking them in his room. His breathing starts to pick up, and he realizes it’s the fear that’ll get to him first. His body tightens around his hand, squashing the tremble so he can try to fake being asleep without giving himself away.

There’s a dip in his bed right behind him followed by a heavy sigh. The detective moves some more before he finally stops. A mountain of dread sits in Malcolm’s stomach, making him nauseous with every little stirring movement.

“Hey, kid,” Gil says with another sigh. He sounds worn out.

 _Maybe it’s because of me,_ he thinks.

“Your mother called. She said you were involved in another incident at school?”

He keeps his body rigid under the covers and his mouth shut. This isn’t the first time it’s happened, and it won’t be the last time, so he doesn’t understand why they care so much.

“She told me that a few boys were making fun of you in the classroom, and decided to pour water on you when the teacher left the room. Is that true?”

The moment replays in his head on a sickening loop. Under the dark blue sheets, his cheeks flush and his eyes start to water.

He’s extremely embarrassed.

They ruined his clothes, soaked some of his books, and messed up his hair in the middle of the day all for a stupid prank. He had to walk around in his gym clothes for the rest of the day, walking through the hallways with relentless teasing and questioning looks not just from his peers, but the staff as well.

He wanted to disappear from the world at that very moment. Right now, tucked away under the covers with tears in his eyes, he still does.

“Malcolm,” Gil coos. He takes his hand from his lap and gently rests it on Malcolm’s shoulder. He immediately flinches at the touch of his hand, and Gil pulls away to keep his distance. So much for hiding. “I know you’re still not talking. Not talking, eating, sleeping – what’s going on, kid?”

The bed rises and dips again, and Gil’s voice is much closer than before. “I know I’m not – I know I’m just a friend of your mothers, but I care about you, Malcolm.”

The hurt in Gil’s voice is palpable. Coupled with the hurt is genuine sincerity, a warm coat of comfort that’s enticing, but also repulsive. He doesn’t want this – he just wants his dad – but he can’t have that either, and this man talks like he cares, like he’s _actually_ concerned for his wellbeing, but Malcolm doesn’t buy it.

It’s too good to be true.

“I care about you, and I want to make sure that you’re okay. You don’t have to say or do anything you don’t want to around me; I just want you to know that I’ll always be here for you, even when you don’t want me to.”

The sheets under his face moisten as he tries to keep Gil from seeing his tears.

It’s too good to be true, because he knows he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve any kind of love or affection for breaking their family – after taking away everything he loved. It’s his fault they’re like this – that _he’s_ like this.

It’s his fault that his mother doesn’t love him. It’s his fault she spends her entire day drunk on their sofa and yelling at him, their staff, and sleazy reporters crowding their home. It’s his fault Ainsley will grow up without a father, without a strong presence in her life. It’s his fault Ainsley cries herself to sleep every night when their mother is too inebriated to kiss her goodnight.

It’s his fault that the kids at school hate him and his teachers are scared of him. It’s his fault that he can’t speak, can’t eat, can’t sleep. He should’ve stayed quiet. None of this would’ve happened if he just kept to himself and never spoke about it. Everything is his fault and he knows it. He deserves whatever is thrown at him. He deserves to feel this pain.

He deserves it, because it’s all his fault–

“You deserve to be happy, kid.”

Gil’s words pierce through the blanket and tear down the mountain-high walls Malcolm has built up over the past few months, and he just _crumbles_. Tears bubble up in his eyes and his breath hitches on a choked sob. In heaps, they fall down his face and dissipate in the sheets. His body starts to shake, misery gnawing at his loneliness and his desire to be loved again.

He wants that. He wants to be happy. He’d give anything to take it all back. Even if it meant more people had to die.

It’s selfish, but he’s suffocating. He’s not sure how much longer he can do this. If he can’t wake up to his father sitting on the edge of his bed with that loving, comforting smile, then he’d rather not wake up at all.

As Malcolm shakes and quietly sobs under the covers, Gil rubs gentle, soothing circles on his back and lets him cry it out. In the midst of his cries, he hiccups and chokes on his spit, then starts to sob even harder. He grits his teeth, a searing heat of anger gripping him, then it quickly melts into a wretched sob. The sheets tighten in his fists, his body aching to be held.

Even with Gil sitting there, he wants to be held by him. By _anyone_.

But he doesn’t deserve that, either.

His father is behind bars, his family broken beyond repair, and he’s all alone in his room.

And it’s all because of him.

* * *

“He saved my life. Even though I’ve thanked him a thousand times over, sometimes I feel like I owe him more than that. He deserves everything life has to offer him and more. He saved my life, and I am forever grateful for that.”

Ainsley’s smile fades to something neutral but she keeps the pleasantry. “What else has he done for you? You credit him for raising you, and that’s not something that gets thrown around lightly.”

Malcolm nods. “Right.”

She squints her eyes then tilts her head to the side to appear to be deep in thought. “Since he has had such an impact in your life, you could say that he’s more than just a family friend.”

He knows what she’s getting at, so he decides to play along. “Yeah. I guess you could say that. He’s like a father to me.”

She hums and nods in her seat, then adjusts her position. “The father you never had.”

It draws a breath from him, and he shakily exhales leaning back in his seat. “Yes.” Thankfully, his father isn’t around to see this; he can’t imagine how he would deal with Martin if he were.

“He was there for a lot of my firsts – he took me to my first Yankees game when I was a kid. He was there for birthdays, graduations, even helped me when I had a crush on this girl back in college. He taught me everything I needed to know about what it meant to be a man, and how to treat a woman – things like that.”

If all else fails, Gil is the one constant in Malcolm’s life that he can always rely on. Blood doesn’t make family – something Gil once taught him – and hearing him say that had opened so many doors for Malcolm when it came to loving Jackie like a mother, and her loving him like her own son without judgement. Gil is in his life and no matter what time of day it is, if he calls, Gil will always answer.

“I have some good memories to look back on thanks to him.”

She genuinely smiles at that. “Are there any you would like to share?” Ainsley asks, chin resting on her knuckles.

* * *

The sink’s running, and Malcolm vaguely thinks of doing the same. Of course, when his body began to slowly mature over time, he didn’t have long before he would face his greatest fear. He knew this day was coming; he just wishes he were under different circumstances.

He leans into the mirror and feels the prickly stubble growing on his face and under his chin. The other night, Jessica teased him about how scraggly he’s starting to look with the unruly stubble, and it doesn’t help that he’s been growing out his hair for a while. In passing, she made a comment about how much he looks like Martin when they were young, and he’s been fixated with the idea of shaving ever since.

He just didn’t know _how_.

Luckily for him, when he mentioned wanting to learn over dinner at the Arroyo’s one night, Gil was more than eager to help and Jackie offered to be his cheerleader.

So, after a long week of homework and exams, Malcolm snuck away to the Arroyo’s for the weekend, itching to rid himself of this horrid look he’d been sporting. He can’t look in a mirror without seeing his father staring back at him; he’s tempted to cut all of his hair off and learn to shave by himself.

The water continues to run as he waits for Gil. He’s in their master bathroom with Jackie leaning against their white countertops with her long hair tied up in a bun, staring at him but saying nothing. She reaches over to turn the faucet off. “Malcolm?”

His hand steadily trembles at his side, mind lost in his own reflection. She watches him anxiously twitch, then her hand gently nudges his forearm. “Hey,” she calls. He finally turns his head to face her with the same blank stare. His eyebrows arch like he’s paying attention, but she knows his thoughts are elsewhere.

“You’re going to be fine, sweetie,” she reassures, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear. “Gil’s not going to let anything happen to you.”

He ducks his head with a nervous smile, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

Her head tilts at that, but before she has the chance to ask, Gil walks through the double doors with two hand towels and the biggest grin on his face. Jackie pulls away from Malcolm to greet Gil with a small peck to his cheek and wraps her arms around his waist. “Go easy on him, will you?”

Gil lands a kiss on the top of her head, chuckling. “I’m just teaching him how to shave, it’s no big deal.” He drops the towels on the sink and gently sways with her, holding her in his arms. “Besides, someone’s gotta teach him how to shape up that mug of his. Right, kid?”

His frown quickly disappears under a nervous smile, and Malcolm just nods.

“Alright you two,” she says, tapping Gil’s arm. “Behave. I’ll be in the front if you need anything.”

Jackie sends a wink to Malcolm, and Gil gives her one last kiss before she exits the bathroom. Gil reaches over to shut the doors, then turns around with a warm smile. “You ready, kid?”

Gil grabs a tray of unused razors from under the sink and lays them on top of the counter next to the two towels he brought, then grabs his shaving cream. Malcolm’s fingers twirl the ends of his shirt between his fingers as he watches Gil get prepared, forcing himself to keep his pulse steady and his mind off of the sharp blades.

Every man uses them. His father used sharp tools, too.

He swallows the lump in his throat and hides his simmering anxiety under a flashy smile and an overly-cheerful expression. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

For the most part, Malcolm gets the hang of it pretty quickly. Gil shows him all of the tricks and trades he personally uses, and reminds Malcolm which direction he should shave every time he tries to shave at an angle.

His hand is nearly steady the whole time too. Gil takes note of how quiet he is, but he assumes that Malcolm is just concentrated on getting it right, and with no notable signs of frustration, he thinks that Malcolm’s doing just fine.

It’s when he accidentally nicks himself on his chin that things start to turn sour. Immediately, the razor collides with the counter and Malcolm snatches a towel to blot the blood, even though it’s only a small flesh wound.

“You okay?” Gil’s hand instinctively cups Malcolm’s but he flinches away with a scowl and crushes the damp towel against his face. Its like a rubber band snapping, and Gil stands there at a loss of what to do.

“I’m fine,” he says harshly into the towel. The drumming of his heart beats in his ears, thudding with his seizing lungs, gripping the cloth and breathing heavily into it as his hand trembles to hold it up. “I’m fine.”

He remains frozen for a couple of minutes, leaning against the sink. Gil carefully watches over him through pinched brows and genuine concern. He lets Malcolm take his time to sort it out, because even if he wanted help, Gil knows he’d never ask for it.

The drips of the runny faucet pull Malcolm from his thoughts, and he immediately feels the weight of Gil’s stare. His suspicions are confirmed, because when he opens his eyes again, he’s met with Gil’s, and he quickly realizes what just happened. His cheeks flush, and his ears warm up against his skin.

“Is there something on your mind?” Gil quietly asks. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.” Malcolm doesn’t move to answer. “If I’m being honest, I’m starting to think that there’s more to this than just wanting to spend time with me.”

Malcolm sighs against the towel. Gil’s no idiot, and he kicks himself for trying to act like everything’s fine.

“You’re right,” he says, clearing his throat. For a second, he hesitates, debating if he should tell Gil the truth or find some half-wit reason that sounds plausible enough for Gil to leave it alone.

Nothing comes to mind. When he takes a second too long to answer, Gil shifts his feet and leans against the counter on his hip with a deepening frown, patiently waiting for an answer.

“I wanted to learn because...” Malcolm shakes his head, grimacing. “Because I don’t want to look like _him_.”

The second he says it out loud, he wants to take it back immediately. Even though Gil takes the time to listen and understand his growing fears, admitting it out loud feels like he’s overreacting about something as insignificant as body hair.

He knows very well shaving won’t mask the genes flowing through his body, but if there’s one thing he can control about his outward appearance, then he’ll make it his mission to distance himself as far as he possibly can.

“When Ainsley grows up, she won’t have to deal with this. She won’t be stuck with–” He vaguely gestures to his face. “–this. She’ll be beautiful and elegant like mother. I’ll just be...” The towel drops from his face and Malcolm stares longingly at his reflection in the mirror. “I’ll just be me.”

Seeing Malcolm’s desperation shatters Gil’s heart. He wonders how long the thought has been weighing on his mind, how self-conscious he’s been, and why he’s been persistent about it from the moment he asked for his help.

Gil doesn’t need him to elaborate. Instead, Gil rests his hand on the back of Malcolm’s neck and gently squeezes it. He keeps the pressure there, quietly reassuring him that he’s there, telling him that it’s okay without having to say it. He learned very quickly that Malcolm doesn’t always like to voice what’s going through his head, and prefers silence and gentle touches than a conversation.

“Looks don’t define who you are, Malcolm.” Gil gently brushes his thumb along the kid’s neck. “Just remember that.”

Quietly, Malcolm slowly leans into Gil’s side. He knows Gil means well, and he definitely put Gil in an awkward position, but he doesn’t feel like talking about it any further. He stays tucked in to Gil’s side until his legs go numb, but even then, he doesn’t feel like moving.

So, Gil just rests his hand on top of Malcolm’s head and pulls him in a little closer.

Gil knows he’s not his father, and he can’t fix every little thing that Martin has taken from Malcolm; but, if he can provide a sense of safety and security, then he’ll make it his mission to give him a loving home he can always come back to. Words can’t describe how much he loves Malcolm, and for right now, sharing the comfortable silence says enough.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

“That’s amazing,” Ainsley mumbles, watching her brother in awe.

He nods, still lost in the memory.

“The man and his wife practically took you in, correct?”

His head bobs from side to side. “More or less. His wife was the most patient, caring, and sweetest woman I’ve ever met. She took me in as if I were her own son, and whenever I was struggling with the stuff going on inside my head, they took me in and kept my head above water. They never judged me for who I was, and their home became a safe haven for me.”

A home away from home; their spare bedroom was reserved for Malcolm, decorated with his favorite knickknacks and books that he loved to read. When he started to spend his nights there or crash there right after school, Jackie insisted that they buy him a desk, and it was one of the best birthday gifts he’s had in a long time.

“Did you spend a lot of time in their home?”

“I did, and my mother wasn’t too fond of me spending so much time away from there. We used to butt heads a lot.” His mouth twists in a grimace, memories of being a distraught teenager playing in the back of his mind. All of the unshed tears, broken champagne glasses, and painful truths they’d rather ignore to preserve _any_ peace they had left.

“One time – I think I was seventeen – we got into a screaming match and we said some very hurtful things to one another. She was drunk that night, so I knew that talking to her was pointless. Still, we fought. She never admitted it out loud, but I think a part of her believed that the Arroyo’s tried to take me away from her. In her unfiltered, drunken rage, she told me that I should go live with them since I didn’t love her enough to stay.”

Malcolm keeps his gaze away from Ainsley. They didn’t fight often, but when they did, it was explosive and unforgiving; exchanging words a son should never say to this mother, and such words a mother should never say to her son.

He remembers catching a glimpse of blond hair sticking out from behind a corner in the living room and a small hand clutching the wall, listening to them bicker over nothing. When he spotted her, he immediately pushed his mother to the side and tried to check on his sister, but she ran away and locked herself in her room before he could get to her.

He never apologized for his behavior, and he never made the extra effort to make sure she was okay. She braved the storm like she always did, pretending like it’s water off a duck’s back, but it didn’t erase his guilt of putting her through that at such a young age. Malcolm knew he was better than that.

Malcolm shrugs. “We’ve said some nasty things to each other before, so it didn’t really faze me that much.”

“Is that normal for you? To fight with your mother?”

Even though she’s doing her job, somehow the question feels heavier than the others.

He turns his head to face Ainsley, his hands gathering sweat under his palms. “Well, it was a different time back then. We were both hurting and trying to coping with this in our own ways. Unfortunately...” His body sighs with him as his shoulders slack and his head tilts to the side, eyes averting to the shadow behind Ainsley.

“More often than not, it just ended with shouting and petty apologies.”

If he’s being honest with himself, there were a couple of times he wished to be with his father instead of her. At least shackled to a wall in his cuffs, his father didn’t have the luxury of physically hurting him wherever he was angry. Of course, it doesn’t take much for Martin to ruin Malcolm’s day, but at least he didn’t have to do it with his hands.

Her apology came nearly forty years late, and at the time, he didn’t have the stomach to forgive her.

“I just wanted to get away from New York. I couldn’t bear to live another day in that house, I couldn’t.”

“What did you do?”

“I had just turned eighteen, and I was leaving for college in a month. I thought long and hard about it, about wanting to live as a different person – to have a fresh start. I knew that if I walked into Harvard, the school with the most intelligent student body in the country, I couldn’t be myself. I couldn’t be Malcolm Whitly, the son of a serial killer. No, I had to be someone _else_.”

He bites his lip then shakes his head. He doesn’t regret doing what he did, but he knew he was going to pay a _hefty_ price for it.

“I knew what I had to do to get that freedom. When my mother found out about it, she was royally pissed off, to say the least.”

* * *

“What is this?” Jessica asks, lifting up a pristine white envelope.

Her eyes are fixed on the swirling dark liquor in her hand, the taste of her rage and grief settling on the tip of her tongue. Malcolm watches her twirl the glass over her desk, her dark stilettos bouncing with the tempo of her wrist as his heart beats against his chest and sweat gathers on his forehead.

The top of the envelope is torn open, probably undone by the knife lying next to her elbow.

She _knows._

“It’s addressed to Malcolm Bright. Last time I checked, Malcolm _Whitly_ lives at this estate.” She looks up at him with the deepest scowl. “Care to explain?”

The envelope crinkles in her grip. Even though she has the key to his freedom in her hands, he doesn’t feel guilty about what he’s done – he doesn’t _regret_ this.

“It’s a letter from court,” he says, clutching his fist. “I’m no longer a Whitly.”

A laugh erupts from her chest, and Malcolm cringes at the volume, but he stands his ground.

“You think some silly court document is going to erase everything your father has put us through? I thought you were smarter than that.” Jessica stands up from the desk and stalks towards Malcolm, heels striking against the floor. She stops with a few feet between them, her six inches letting her tower over him with a clouded look on her face.

Something reminiscent of his father.

He can smell her perfume and simmering anger, and he grimaces at the bourbon on her breath.

“What makes you think that some _stupid_ piece of paper is going to take you away from me? Where the hell did you come up with Bright, anyway? Saw it in a news ad?”

The stench of alcohol makes him want to gag on the words spewing from her mouth. When he fails to say something, Jessica laughs in his face, and goes for another sip. He hates it when she gets like this.

Malcolm sets his shoulders back and holds his head held high and his chest puffed out. He’s not ashamed of it, and he refuses to let her win. With just enough courage, he stares his mother dead in the eyes and clenches his jaw. “Jackie gave it to me.”

It feels like a punch to the gut. For a brief moment, Jessica finds it hilarious and takes another big sip from her glass. Then, when the alcohol hits the back of her throat, she looks back at Malcolm’s steeled expression and sobers up very quickly.

Her expression darkens into something frightening, lips pressed in a tight line, eyes boring into his soul, and his heart thuds in his chest at the onslaught he knows is coming his way. “You can’t leave me, Malcolm Whitly, do you understand?” Immediately, she grabs his arm with a vice grip and Malcolm hisses and jerks back at the pain.

“Get off me!” he yells, desperately trying to pull away from her.

“Do you understand?” She’s almost screaming now, and she doesn’t seem to care about who hears her. “You are a part of this family whether you like it or not. I don’t care about some bullshit, fake name that woman gave you. You were born a Whitly and you will _always_ be a Whitly!”

She grips his arm so tight that her nails dig into his skin, and his arm goes numb with the tightening pressure. “Do you understand?”

It _hurts_.

The pain is blinding, and her tightening grip makes his eyes water but he shuts them, holding onto the little defiance he has left. When she drinks, his mother can be frightening. However, he walked in on a near-full glass, so he’s not even sure if this _is_ the alcohol talking.

“Answer me when I’m talking to you!”

“Yes!” he cries out, digging his heels into the ground and getting nowhere.

“Yes _what_?” she grits through her teeth.

She grips him impossibly harder, and Malcolm thinks his arm might actually fall off.

“Yes, I understand!”

With that, Jessica shoves him when she lets go. Malcolm stumbles and nearly loses his balance, but he catches himself right before he falls. Quickly, he wipes the tears from his eyes with his palms but it’s no use – they fall down his cheeks as he glares daggers into his mother, cursing her with every fiber of his being.

His shirt’s crinkled by her hands, his hair tossed from yanking his arm, and his face is contorted in a fury he’s never felt, coated with shame and insurmountable guilt for hurting his mother.

It’s _pathetic_.

The envelope rests on top of the desk by her hand. He’d reach for it if he could, but the knife is still sitting there, and he doesn’t feel like risking his life to get it.

“Get out of my sight,” she spits, turning her back and folding her arms.

For a split second, Malcolm wants to say something. A spark of adrenaline spikes, but when he looks at the opened letter, it immediately fades. Words get caught in his throat, and Malcolm just swallows them back with his tears. He slowly turns away from his mother, eyes watery and trembling fists at his side, and heads for the door.

“Take this piece of garbage with you.”

His hand hovers above the door handle, and his feet stop.

He grabs the envelope from the desk and turns away from his mother, not taking a chance to look back. He’s not sure if he hears a soft sniffle from her, but he doesn’t have the energy to care about how she’s feeling right now.

The door slams shut behind him, and the tears fall faster and heavier as he tries to keep himself together, but it’s just not working. He hastily wipes his eyes with his arm and sniffles, walking away from the door while the envelope gets crumpled in his fist.

Just as he steps into the main room, from the corner of his eye he sees some of the house staff watching him, all wearing the same concerned looks on their face.

His cheeks heat up, and the embarrassment of being yelled at with an audience makes him want to throw himself off the nearest building. Maybe the Hudson isn’t a bad idea either.

A part of him wants to yell and lash out, tell them to fuck off and stop staring at him with such pity. They don’t deserve to see this, they don’t care about him – they’re worried about what his mother may do when she decides to leave the room.

 _Yeah_ , he thinks. _That’s it._

His mind drifts off to the darkest, and most hateful places, so he quickly grabs his bag off of the couch and disappears through the front door, and slams it on his way out. Tears blur his vision as he fishes for his phone out of his pocket and types out a message on the individual keypads.

Eventually, his feet carry him to Central Park. He’s not really thinking about the distance right now, or his mother calling every cop in Manhattan to send out a search party for her son. Though, he supposes there’s a fat chance of that happening now.

Once he finds an empty bench, he sends a message to Jackie; but he’s too impatient to wait for a response. So, he calls her, and he hangs onto every ring. The ringing continues until the voice message plays, and there’s no answer. He calls her again but to no avail.

He chews on his bottom lip as his leg bounces, trying to think of plan B. The last thing he wants to do is disturb Gil while he’s at work, but he’s desperate and alone and thinking of doing something _really_ stupid. When the tears start to pile up again, Malcolm loses his nerve and calls Gil.

The phone rings twice before there’s a click on the other line, and the gruff sound of Gil’s voice coming through.

“Kid?”

Gil is here, waiting for him to answer, and Malcolm feels like his chest is going to burst. His words are lost on him, and he can’t help but break down over the phone. He knew this was going to happen, he knew his mother would be displeased and upset, he _knew_.

Even though he knew what to expect, it doesn’t make the pain hurt any less.

“Kid, what’s wrong?” Malcolm can hear the concern in his voice, one foot in the door and one foot out, in case Malcolm needs his help. “What’s going on, Malcolm?”

“She found out Gil,” he chokes out. “She found out!” He’s sobbing now, tears flowing freely down his face, choking on short breaths, and a shaky hand trying to keep the phone up to his ear. Crying in the middle of Central Park isn’t something he planned on doing that morning, but he also didn’t plan on his mother to hurt him the way she did.

“All because I’m so...because I’m so _stupid_ and left my mail out like an _idiot_ and she found it.” He sniffles, eyeing the crumpled envelope in his hand, untouched by his tears.

“What did she find? You’ve got to help me out here, Malcolm,” Gil says, sighing.

“Remember when Jackie took me to court? When I changed my name? They sent something through the mail, and my mother found it and now she’s angry with me and I knew she would be but she didn’t have to–”

“Do what, kid?”

He regrets ever saying anything. God, and now Gil’s going to start asking questions.

“I need you, Gil. Please, I can’t – I can’t be alone right now.” The last part comes out softer than the rest, and he regrets saying that, too.

“Where are you? I can come get you, and we can sort this out.” In the background, Malcolm hears Gil move around his desk, presumably getting ready to leave. At least someone cares.

He gives Gil a description of where he’s sitting, what’s in his surroundings, and tries to clean himself up with just his arm when in reality, he’s just making a mess.

“I’ll be there soon, okay? Just hang tight. I’ll come get you. Don’t move.”

Malcolm sniffles, feeling a cold sense of numbness take over. “Okay, Gil.”

When Gil hangs up, Malcolm takes a deep breath in, and shudders as he exhales. The paper burns a hole in his hand, a heavy reminder of what he’s done, and how irreversible it feels now.

On paper, he’s no longer a Whitly. He can go to college with a brand new name, a brand new persona away from his life in New York. He’s distancing himself as far as he can, and if legal documents are in play, then so be it.

He wants this to be permanent.

Even so, deep down, a part of him knows that his mother is right. He’s got Whitly blood flowing through him – his father’s blood – and that is something he’ll never be able to hide from.

He carefully lifts the piece of paper out of the envelope, half expecting it to be torn and scribbled on. The page falls open with the wind, and in bright, blue, bold letters, it says:

_Congratulations on your new name!_

* * *

“We didn’t leave on good terms, so to speak. Before I left for college, I gave my sister–” He nods in Ainsley’s direction, smiling. “–my email and a phone number in case she wanted to reach me. I exchanged a few words with my mother. I could tell that she didn’t want me to go, but a part of her was probably glad that I left.”

“What about your father? Did you pay a visit to him before you left?”

“I did. It was brief, not much to say. It’s not like I went for a hug and a kiss goodbye,” he says, chuckling. “I just...left. I left New York for Massachusetts, and I never looked back.”

“And what did you study?”

“I studied criminal psychology at Harvard University.”

“Those are some ambitious goals to set at that age. So, you graduated at the top of your class and moved on to college with this big and heavy burden of what happened to your family. What was the experience like, now that you were free of the Whitly name?”

Malcolm’s eyes drifted to the ceiling in thought, scaling back what he can remember about his college experience back in the day. “I ventured out a little bit. Nothing too crazy – just doing the typical things college kids do that they _shouldn’t_ be doing. Drinking, staying up late, going to parties – you know, normal stuff.”

Ainsley shifts in her chair with a look that Malcolm can’t quite place. “You weren’t at all worried about what other people may think of you?”

“You learn a lot about yourself when you’re free to be whoever you want to be. You experiment, find something you like, find something you don’t, and go back for more. They don’t judge you; they’re all just trying to have a good time.”

He shrugs with a nervous laugh at a memory in particular, and Ainsley catches on.

“Is there something you’d like to share?” she asks, raising her eyebrows with a smirk.

His hand scratches the back of his head with a shy smile. “I think we all have stories that aren’t suited for national television.”

Sensing his growing uncomfortableness, Ainsley decides to leave it alone. There are far more interesting things to talk about than sleazy college hookups. “Fair enough.”

She tries to bring her face to something neutral, but she can’t help the little grin on her lips. He clears his throat in hopes that she continues. “Academically, you were setting records on your transcripts – you had some of the highest numbers in your school throughout college. How did you manage your time between your school life and your life back at home?”

“Like most kids, I visited during the holidays. Even though I was granted the luxury of flying home whenever I could, I chose to stay in Cambridge. Communication between my father lessened over the span of months, but I always made sure to compensate when I was home for longer periods.”

“What was that like, not being able to see your father whenever you wanted to?” she quietly asks.

He leans back in his chair, frowning. Looking back on how he spent his time with his father when he shouldn’t have makes him go quiet. Over the years, he’s been trying to make peace with the reckless decisions he made as a young adult, ignoring the obvious warning signs and walking into his father’s many traps. Just to see if he still loved him.

“Did you miss your father?”

Malcolm takes a second to gather his thoughts.

“I think he missed me more than I cared to see him. Not being able to see him twice a week really made me examine our relationship on a deeper level. With the knowledge that I was gaining from my studies, I was able to put a wall between us and understand the kind of relationship we had.”

His chest feels a bit heavier this time, thinking about the memory of his father. Thinking about the way he looked at him when he was still alive.

“Even though I was starting to see him in a different light, I struggled to separate my attachment to him. I struggled with it my entire life.”

“Now that you had started seeing your father as the person who did all of those horrible things while still wanting to have a bond with his son, how much longer did the visits last?”

“In my senior year, I made a plan to join the F.B.I., and in order to do that, I needed to make certain... _arrangements_ , if you will.”

“And what would those be, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“On the one hand, there’s a mountain of paperwork and applications to fill out – it’s a tedious and complicated process. On the other hand, I came to the conclusion that if I were to become a part of their academy, I had no choice but to cut ties with my father. I aimed to become a criminal profiler and work with the very same people who put my father away all those years ago.”

“How hard was that for you?”

“Looking back at it, it was definitely one of the hardest things I’ve had to do in my life.” His chest constricts, and he takes a deep breath. “Without a doubt.”

That day could’ve gone a whole lot worse than it did. Malcolm was brief and didn’t stay any longer than just a few minutes. Back when the cage was still up and the walls were yellow, they allowed Martin some free range to invite his son in and talk to him alone. When Malcolm declined to sit with his father and continued to stand by the metal bars, Martin knew something was off.

He wasn’t happy, nor was he angry. If Malcolm’s education was worth anything, under the stillness in his father’s frame laid a man who felt betrayed. _Disappointed_ , even.

“My father spent his whole life trying to mold me to become the man that he was, the monster you saw on TV. To see his pride and joy go up into flames was–” Malcolm sinks into his chair under the weight of his father’s empty eyes. “–it was earth-shattering.”

“He lost his only connection to the outside world, the one consistent thing in his life taken from him in a matter of minutes,” Ainsley says, brows dipping in sympathy. “I can’t imagine how...complicated that must’ve been.”

He shrugs, playing it off. “I had to sever ties with my father, and I moved on.” Sitting here nearly thirty years later from that very moment, he wishes he could say he has moved on, but somewhere in the back of his mind, there’s a twinge of something that keeps him locked in that basement with his father.

Calling it regret would be a shot to his pride, but he doesn’t have the guts to look himself in the mirror to say otherwise.

Ainsley can feel the atmosphere change in the room. She’ll never say it out loud, but in the back of her mind, the interview’s going better than she expected. Of course, seeing her brother relive lifelong trauma is never a fun time for anyone involved. Still, she imagines what the ratings will be like once the viewers get to this point in the interview.

She’s done her homework on her brother. Stuck her nose in every place it didn’t belong. If she’s being honest, he’s giving her more than what she wanted, and there’s still a lot of ground they need to cover in the next hour.

She indirectly takes his word for it, and moves on. “You were accepted into the academy at the age of twenty two with your goal of becoming a criminal profiler. In your book, you described your time at the F.B.I. as “freeing” and “life-changing”. You also wrote that the higher-ups were specifically interested in your application.”

“Of course, every inductee has to go through a screening process. Background checks, psych evaluations – I’m certain the moment they pulled my name, they marked my file and kept close observation on me.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because,” he readjusts himself in his chair to try and get comfortable again. “I witnessed it firsthand.”

* * *

For the most part, he’s able to recognize the different hallways fairly quickly. There’s a training course he needs to get to, and he’s been given instructions on where to go, he’s just not sure if it’s a right or left he needs to take. He doesn’t want to chance it, but he has enough leeway to make a mistake, so he takes a right.

Young, sharp, and impressionable, Malcolm strides through the halls of Quantico with his head held high and his walls even higher. Though he has Bright written on his tag, somehow his name trickled down through the grapevine, and just about every lead agent he ran into shared the same disapproving look. One that showed they didn’t want him there.

He’s no idiot. He knows when he’s uninvited, and he knows what it feels like to have everyone watching, waiting for him to slip up and say “I told you so” to anyone who cared to listen.

He knows when he’s not welcomed, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to let his superiors write him off before he can step foot in the door.

“Did you hear?”

“Yeah – I can’t believe they let him in with a record like that.”

“If it were up to me, I’d toss his application in the trash the second I saw that name on the file.”

Hiding behind the corner of the hallway he needs to turn into, Malcolm stops dead in his tracks when he overhears the conversation – one that he’s already tired of hearing. A man and a woman who sound old enough to be in lead positions, their voices are hushed, talking among themselves as if no one could hear them. Especially the topic of discussion.

“That’s the equivalent of telling Jeffrey Dahmer’s kid that he can work for the fucking D.O.J. – like – are you kidding me?”

Malcolm rolls his eyes. You would think grown adults would have the decency to at least talk behind closed doors and not in the middle of the hallway like teenagers.

“They’ve been lenient over the past ten years, I’ve seen it. You’d think after New York, they would be a bit stricter on their qualifications and tighten up security.”

“A pretty face with a life insurance policy to match? Please. He probably batted his eyelashes and paid his way in.”

“Except, I didn’t,” Malcolm calmly says, appearing from behind the corner.

His warm smile startles two lead officials, two of which he recognizes from orientation.

 _Disappointing_.

The man practically hides behind the woman as if she’s tall enough to conceal. They’ve been caught like petty thieves, and Malcolm intends to make them squirm.

“I earned my way in here just like everyone else. If you were any good at your jobs, you would know that they don’t just hire anyone, especially those who have the means to buy their way in.” With their full attention on him, Malcolm takes a couple of steps forward to lessen the gap so they can _really_ hear him.

“The Surgeon and I are not the same, but I’m pretty sure you’ve already made up your mind about me. What’s the point of trying to tell you otherwise?”

Malcolm takes another careful step forward until he’s only inches away from the pair, beaming with a smug smile. “I intend to make a name for myself here, and you will _earn_ my respect in the coming months that I train at this facility. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have class to attend.”

He leaves the two hanging on a ledge, chewing their lips with no reason to speak. Just as he begins to walk away, Malcolm turns around with a slight frown.

“And – if you don’t mind – I’d rather you take your gossip to your office. Your lack of professionalism is atrocious and immature.”

Even though he’s seething on the inside, Malcolm smiles to himself.

It’s a small and petty act, but he refuses to tolerate it from the same people who accepted him here. He’s not some animal on display for a circus, and he’s not some ticking time bomb that they set loose, only to snap and be covered in ‘I told you so’ when he gets whisked away in handcuffs by his coworkers.

He finds his classroom down the hall and walks in, quickly taking his seat in the front and taking out his notebook and pen, extremely aware of the whispers and stares. There’s no time for childish gossip. He’s going to prove them _all_ wrong.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

“I got used to the gossip and the rumors pretty quickly. After a while, it became static. I’d been dismissed and taunted my entire life up to that point, so it really didn’t faze me. Carried on for ten years up until the very last day.”

“So, what happened? Where did it all go wrong?” she asks, chin resting on her hand.

“In hindsight, it just kept going downhill for me. I had my own way of clearing cases; though, I will admit that some of my methods were unconventional, others a bit excessive. Nonetheless, I got the job done, up until the day I was fired and let go.”

After all of these years of processing and growing from his experiences, there’s still an ache that comes when he mentions his time in the F.B.I.; though he was far away from the madness of his family, it felt like he was back in school all over again. His relationship with his father no longer existed, and yet, he was continuously condemned for it.

“Over the course of two years, a case was built against me that led to my termination at the F.B.I. Their reason for firing me came from the belief that I suffered the same “psychotic inclinations” as my father – specifically, they believed we shared similar _tendencies_. All they saw was the son of a murderer, and I was naïve to think I could ever be something more than that.”

Getting fired was already humiliating enough – his father being the reason for it felt like a horrible joke that he couldn’t understand. It had been ten years without a phone call, a letter, a postcard – nothing, and yet they still denied him. They called his method “unconventional”, which was code for behaving too reckless, and too close to what his father could do.

He dreaded having to tell his family why he came back to New York.

“In the book, you talk about moving back to New York after you were fired and the toll it took on your mental health. On the plus side, you found work again consulting for the N.Y.P.D. alongside the man who raised you and a few other people you consider to be a part of your family. You thrive when you’re working a case, so why did it get so bad? What was going on?”

Outside of this interview, Ainsley and Malcolm have talked about his return to New York only a handful of times. Getting away from his family seemed a bit selfish to her at that age, now she understood it since she was stuck with their mother all of that time. She was glad to have her brother back home, but coming back broke something in him and she could only assume why it got so bad so quickly.

He swallows hard. Then he takes a sharp deep breath in, “I saw my father again.” He pauses. Reminds himself to keep his hands from fidgeting with his suit, to keep eye contact with Ainsley, and to speak clearly so the mic can’t pick up on the slight tremor in his voice. Something tugs at his suit sleeve, but he ignores it.

“After ten long years, I paid a visit to my father while I was working a case. A case that concerned him, even though he wasn’t directly involved in it. They had an old connection, and I felt as if I had no choice but to get the answers from him.”

“How did you feel when you saw him?”

“Anxious. Frustrated. I thought I had it under control. That it was just going to be a one-time visit, but the visits continued, and I found myself caught in a vicious cycle I worked so hard to break.”

“How did it affect your mental health?”

With a heavy sigh, he shuffles in his seat, brows pinching together to figure out where he should start. He doesn’t want to come across as a broken record, but...

“For starters, my night terrors were intense. I never slept more than a couple hours at a time; some nights, I never slept at all. My brain started to recall memories I had forgotten, things that I’ve been protected from for years were bubbling up to the surface, daily hallucinations, flashbacks – it just kept piling up and over time, I felt like I was reaching a breaking point.”

Not to mention that his relationship with his mother was just as fragile as it was when he left. They talk to each other, but its empty pleasantries. Ainsley’s career was taking off, getting her big break at A.N.N. as a new anchor (though, it was quickly disrupted by the death of Nicholas Endicott). His father was in prison, but as luck would have it, Martin manipulated himself into the ranks overnight, and he was in control once again.

Bringing Sunshine from D.C. helped him settle into his loft, until it was overrun by the figments of his imagination, ghosts behind closed doors, serial killer colleagues, and missing girls begging to be found. Then, an angel appears in his life, a woman by the name of Eve who he thought would save him from the madness of his father – give him the sense of stability he’d been searching for his whole life.

A pipe dream, he once called it. Murdered but never forgotten. Her sister was found alive and well, while Eve laid still in a body bag at the morgue. His own sister was covered in another man’s blood hours later. His head spins and bile burns in the back of his throat at the fate he’s been fighting against his entire life – a fate that had been dwelling in his baby sister all along.

His life was beginning to fall apart all over again, and this time, it wasn’t even his fault. He didn’t have the luxury of running away to another state to hide from it all.

Having to share murder charges between his sister made him dizzy, and watching her stare at the floor dressed in white scrubs when he visited her broke something in him that’ll never be fixed. Jessica lost both of her children overnight, and she struggled to grieve while Gil’s life was hanging by a thread.

All while Martin sat back in his cell and laughed.

He should’ve listened. They told him that there was no girl in the box, and he should’ve believed them and left it alone.

“At one point, I just shut down. I wasn’t able to process the things that were happening around me, so I just shut down. I wasn’t allowed to come back to work just yet. I slipped into a deep depression and I felt so _numb_ that I couldn’t even move or think. I just stayed in bed.”

From across the way, he can see genuine hurt in her eyes. Maybe it’s the guilt of putting him through that, even though he showed up for her every chance he got. Maybe it’s her regret for pushing him away when she was finally released; when he was only trying to help. Maybe it’s an overwhelming sadness of losing her best friend when they needed each other the most.

The memories get to her, too. She can feel her throat tighten, and the second her eyes feel a bit itchy, she clears her throat and adjusts herself in her seat. “How did you cope? How did you pull yourself out of that headspace?”

“I had my team. They were there for me during all of this, and gave me my space when I needed it. It was a rough patch in my life, and it took me years to come to terms with it and find some peace within myself. But, I’m thankful that I had them, because I don’t know what would’ve happened if I sat alone with my thoughts the entire time.”

* * *

_Help._

That’s the only warning Dani gets.

There’s no follow up, no typing in progress, just a single word: help. She’s on her way back to the precinct, sitting at a stop light with music low in the background when her phone lights up with a message from Malcolm. It’s completely unexpected, and she’s caught off guard in the middle of midday traffic.

He’s been radio silent for a whole week, and the last thing she expects from him is a text telling her that he needs her help.

_I’m on my way._

When the light turns green, Dani puts her signal on and tries to get over to the left lane to make a U-turn; thank god she’s only a few blocks from the loft. Once she’s all the way over, she hooks her steering wheel at the yellow light and spins her car until she’s on the other side and headed for the loft.

It’s the longest seven minute drive of her life. With her hands gripping the wheel as she teeters the speed limit, her mind races with every horrible scenario that could have prompted him to reach out for help, something that he _never_ does.

Is he hurt? Did he break something? Will she have to call Gil about this?

 _Gil._ What is she going to tell Gil? Does she even tell him? What if Malcolm just wants help from her? He’d call Gil if he needed to, right?

She rolls up against the curb and jacks the car in park. She grabs her phone from the cup holder, her keys fly out the ignition, and she slams the car door shut, quickly locking it. She sends him a text that she’s here then buzzes in. Her heart beats against her chest and her blood pulses in her ears as she stands and waits for him to let her in.

Seconds go by. The longer she waits, the more concerned she becomes. In her head, she starts a countdown from fifteen.

Calling him isn’t an option – she wants to make this as painless as possible. Go at his speed and don’t try to do anything more that could potentially scare him off. Police work is patience, so she’ll wait for however long she needs to.

Her head whips at the sound of the buzzer going off and the latch on the door unlocking. Dani yanks the door open and heads for the top, curls bouncing as she practically runs up the stairs. Looking up, she can see a crack in the door. “Bright?”

She doesn’t know what to expect on the other side, but she wouldn’t be surprised if she has to call 911 when she gets there. “Bright?”

When she gets to the top of the stairs, her hand gently pushes the door open. Her eyes take in the scene of the loft, searching for red flags, broken glasses, or anything that’s out of the ordinary. So far, everything seems to be in order. Even Sunshine’s moving around in her cage like the happiest bird in New York. Everything is fine, she looks around for their profiler.

She takes a few steps in towards the center. She surveys the line of pill bottles on the counter next to his deck of daily affirmations and an unfinished glass of water. The kitchen looks untouched, but it rarely gets used for cooking. His living space is vacant, nothing moved off the shelves. She turns her attention towards his bed and the body lying beneath the covers.

“Bright?”

Slowly, Dani takes a few steps towards him. She rounds the corner of his bed and nervously checks over what she can see from the covers. It’s not much.

He’s hunched in a fetal position with the covers pulled up to his ears and the rest of his body is hidden underneath. The restraints hang from the sides of the bed, but she can make out the leather band cuff around his wrist by his pillow. His phone is discarded on the nightstand.

She stops right by the corner of the bed, then carefully sits down on the edge towards his feet. “Hey,” she says, placing her hand on the sheets. The loft feels heavier than when she walked in, and the stillness from the bed makes the quietness of the loft seem that much louder.

“I got your text. What’s going on?”

He’s lying so still that she can’t even tell if he’s breathing or not. Judging by his lack of response, she guesses that he’s not interested in talking, and after the few crazy weeks he’s had, she doesn’t blame him for it. “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it right now. Just know that I’m not leaving until I know you’re okay.”

That earns a reaction.

He shifts ever so slightly under the covers, and she’s ready to catch whatever he’s about to throw her way. By his head, his hand moves out from under the sheets and lays flat on top with a slight tremble. He grabs the top of the covers with his other hand, and Malcolm pulls it from over his head down to his chest, and lays his head back on his pillow.

She can see his face now. His hair is unkempt, probably untouched for days. His stubble is noticeably thicker than the last time she’s seen him, she can see the gray circles under his heavy eyes from a distance, and his face is dry with the crust left by his tear-stained cheeks.

He’s been crying, and her heart breaks even more.

“Bright...”

He just closes his eyes and shakes his head, his frown suggesting that he’s too tired to argue. Still, her gut moves her closer to him, lifting her legs off the ground and bringing them up on the bed so she can sit criss crossed.

She’s by his legs now, hands in her lap but only inches away from his. With her lips pressed in a tight line, Dani forces herself to sit back and let him have a moment to himself.

He’s alive, medicated, seemingly uninjured, and well enough to let someone in when he’s been by himself for nearly two weeks. Maybe not well enough for a conversation yet, but she’s relieved that she doesn’t need to call Gil or an ambulance, so she’ll mark this as a win in her book.

She’s worried, though. He’s unkempt and unwell, to say the least. Seeing him like this is new for her; she might’ve caught glimpses of this behavior before – Eve’s death being one of them – but it doesn’t compare to the exhaustion in his body, and the defeat in his frame. He trusts her enough to see him like this, and Dani doesn’t exactly find that comforting.

Something’s _seriously_ wrong.

“When was the last time you ate something, Bright?” Instead of answering, he just squints his eyes even though they’re already shut. He groans, grimacing at the thought of food. “What about something light? Or I can get you something to drink?” He barely manages to shake his head at both options. “You need to eat something. You can’t just take pills on an empty stomach.”

He groans and turns his head away from her, so she just leaves it at that. “I’m going to get you a glass of water,” she says, moving to get off the bed.

Suddenly the bed shifts, and Malcolm’s hand is holding onto Dani’s with a vice grip. She finds pleading eyes staring at her, filled to the brim with unshed tears, desperate, and broken. With his hand shaking her own, she realizes that she just made a huge mistake, and she slowly eases back onto the bed. “Please don’t go,” he whispers, voice cracking and eyes wide.

“I won’t, I promise,” she reassures. “I’m not going anywhere, Bright. I promise.” She grips his hand back then looks him square in the eyes. “I _promise_.”

It takes a second for her words to process, but when they do, he nods and slowly starts to pull away from her until he’s laying back down, still holding onto her hand. For minutes, they stay like that. Hands together with no intention of letting go.

Dani asks herself if it’s supposed to feel weird, that being this close to Malcolm is supposed to be awkward and uncomfortable. She spends time talking to herself about it, trying to figure out if this is supposed to mean something more than what it appears to be.

Eventually, she reaches the conclusion that she’s overthinking, because she knows that deep down inside, she would do this all over again in a heartbeat.

They’ve been through so much together that it’s starting to feel normal now. Not weird or uncomfortable, just _normal_. She finds comfort in knowing that he’ll do the same for her without hesitation.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” she quietly asks.

He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he closes his eyes and sinks deeper in his pillow.

They sit in the silence of the loft without saying anything else. Sunshine chirps from her cage, presumably at the front door still being open, and Dani makes a note to close it whenever she’s able to get up. When she finally relaxes, she unties her boots with her free hand and kicks them off to the side, then takes her hair out of her ponytail.

She lays down beside him, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the sound of Manhattan outside of his window. _His sheets are really soft_ , she thinks. _I wouldn’t leave my bed either._

She’s lost in the background noise of the street when the sound of sniffling brings her to focus. Shuddered breaths make her heart jump, followed by more sniffling and a deep exhale. She doesn’t have to turn her head to know what’s happening, to see Malcolm struggling not to cry but losing the fight with his emotions.

She keeps her head trained on the ceiling to give him privacy. His hand begins to tremble in hers, leather cuffs rattling against the sheets as he silently fights the urge to break down. He bites at his bottom lip as his body shakes with tears and hitched breaths, frowning as he slowly starts to unravel next to her.

When she hears a strained cry leave his lips, she grasps his hand even tighter, and gently smooths her thumb over his fingers.

Dani gets the answer to her question, and she regrets that she ever asked in the first place.

* * *

His hand twinges at the memory.

“She knew how much you needed her in that moment,” Ainsley reiterates.

Malcolm nods with a sad smile. “She did. That was the first time I let myself go in a _very_ long time. Not everyone has a person they can cry in front of and not feel guilty about it. She let me have my moment and she never judged me or pitied me when it was all over.”

He glances down at the beautiful gold wedding band on his finger, grinning as it gleams under the studio lights. “I don’t have the words to describe how grateful I am for her.”

The sentiment has Ainsley smiling across the way, watching in awe at Malcolm’s love and appreciation for Dani. She’s grateful for her too, because she’s witnessed their relationship bloom and grow over the years, and for her brother to finally find his person to share his world with feels like a weight has been lifted off her chest.

“Well, you eventually married her, isn’t that right?”

Malcolm’s lips curl into an easy smile. “I did. But, we didn’t rush into anything for quite some time. It took us almost two years before we started dating, actually.”

“What took so long? Was there something that was holding you back?”

He thinks back to the moment when they first met, both too caught up in their jobs to acknowledge the other. The more they started to work together, the more questions that he wanted to ask her; a past that she wasn’t too keen on sharing with just anyone, and he wanted to figure out who she was underneath the hard exterior.

“If I’m being honest...I just wanted to get to know her better as a person. I was content with just being her friend and nothing more. When it started to grow into something more, I sort of panicked – I’ve never felt that way about anyone for years.”

He presses his lips in a tight line, pausing to figure out how to word what he wants to say next. He takes another beat before he continues. “For a long time, I was attached to this idea that I wasn’t deserving of love. I knew that my instabilities and trauma made it hard to be desirable to other people – I sleep in restraints, for crying out loud.”

The gold wedding band catches his eye again, longing for the days when it was just the two of them laying together in the morning sun. Taking joint showers after a rough case, or tending to each other’s personal wounds when miscommunication spoils their dinner. From hearing her soothing voice while he screams at night to his devotion to understand every facet about her being.

“Still, she was patient with me, and that’s all I could really ask for.”

A shadow casts over his wedding band.

“Did you share everything with your father? Did you keep the personal details to yourself, or were the visits more than just police work?” Another question that feels like a dig at his open communication with his father, years of going back when he said he was going to stop.

“My father was very perceptive – not much could get past him. I kept my personal life a secret and I was sure to keep up appearances every time I went to visit him. When I was engaged, I never wore my ring around him – I was meticulous about it. I did the exact same thing when we finally got married.”

The idea of his father taking something from him while he slept comfortable in his cell irked Malcolm to his very core. For the first time in his entire life, he’s indescribably _happy_. He can’t fathom the idea of Martin continuously controlling his entire life.

“Details like that mean a lot to me, and I didn’t want the one good thing in my life to be tainted by him.”

“Hiding your whole life from him must’ve been exhausting to maintain. But, I want to jump back into something real quick,” Ainsley says, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “You said that you didn’t want the only good thing in your life to be tainted by him.”

Malcolm nods. “Yes. He has manipulated and controlled my life from the moment I was born – this was the first time I got to live my life separate from him.”

“Are you? Are you truly living your life separate from him?”

He frowns at that. Judging by the steel look in her eyes, he can see her gears turning, staring at him with the same look she gives to her interviewees when she’s digging for something that hits the nail on the head. He has a theory as to where she might be going with this, and his heart thuds with anticipation.

She watches his eyes squint and his head turn, curious, hesitant to take the bait. So, she lends him a hand. “If your entire life has been controlled by your father from the day you were born, then how much of your private life is really your own? Even if you don’t call him on the phone every day and give him the latest, he still has a hand in nearly every decision you make.”

As much as that fact annoys him to his core, she’s right, and he’s been grappling with that for as long as he can remember.

“For example, your son.”

Sitting completely still in his chair, Malcolm’s eyes widen ever so slightly, feeling his pulse quicken at the mention of his son in the same breath as Martin. His back straightens with his sights on Ainsley, ignoring the bait that she’s throwing at him, and quietly seethes with his sudden need to protect his son from being used as a prop.

Ainsley knows she’s hit a nerve, and she continues to play with the ammunition Malcolm unwillingly provides her with. “In your own words, describe to me the conversation you had with your partner when you decided that you were going to have children. I know it must’ve been a difficult decision to make, considering – well – everything.”

As soft and sympathetic as her voice comes across, he clearly knows it’s a ploy to throw him off, pushing him to his limits to conjure an answer that’s worth the money she’s about to make. So, he buckles up and forces himself to relax in his chair; he’s not going to be unnerved by his sister, and he’s not going to give her what she wants.

He nods. “You’re right. It wasn’t easy. When we first started dating, I let my wife know how I genuinely felt about having my own children in the future, and what it meant to me. For someone who has lived through extensive childhood trauma, the idea of taking care of your own children is not only a pipe dream, but perhaps the biggest nightmare you could think of.”

Malcolm remembers the extensive conversations they had together when it came to talking about children. Neither were eager to jump into something if the other wasn’t ready, and for a while, it was just the two of them in their new home taking time for themselves, free of thinking about the future.

“I knew that if I wanted to have children of my own, I would have to put in the work to have a healthier mindset. I knew that I needed to heal something broken in me before we could even _think_ about conceiving. I had my own issues to deal with, and my wife had her own opinions; we both dreamed of a miracle, but we both had things in our lives that set us back.”

Ainsley nods intently, her eyes narrowing when he speaks as if she’s truly listening. She knows that Malcolm will ramble on and on about his wife and how much he’s grateful for her, and it’s not like she hasn’t heard this story a million times already.

In the back of her mind, she wonders if she asked the right question; she’s not getting the response she needs, but there’s the magic of editing she can always rely on.

“I remember the day that she told me. It was an off day for us both, and she was up super early to bring me breakfast in bed – which was _odd_ ,” he says, chuckling.

“As confused as I was, I just assumed that she wanted to do something nice, so I didn’t really think twice about it. We ate together in our bed and talked, and as we’re talking, I noticed how she kept smiling after every bite. Refused to tell me why. She got up from the bed and took the dishes back into the kitchen, then came striding back and sat down right next to me.”

* * *

“What?” he asks, her smile contagious. “What is it?”

Sitting crisscrossed with her palms between her legs, Dani gently rocks with a grin that hasn’t left her face since the moment she came in with fresh pancakes and eggs.

Malcolm looks at her expectantly while she hums to herself, clearly enjoying his inability to guess what she has to tell him. Her curls bounce on her shoulder in the cutest way that has Malcolm momentarily distracted, but when she refuses to give him any hints or the _actual_ answer, he stops what he’s doing.

“Dani,” he says, grabbing her hands and looking her straight in the eyes. “Is everything okay? If I’m being honest, you’re starting to scare me.”

She practically giggles at that but it’s not enough to get her to speak. Then she sees a hint of worry in his eyes, a tell-tale sign that he’s genuinely worried that something’s wrong, and the words she refuses to say sit heavier on her tongue. They stare intently at each other for a minute without saying a word.

Suddenly, her emotions overcome her and tears start to fill her eyes, her grin slowly morphing into a slight frown, and her eyebrows furrow as her lip starts to quiver. His eyes widen at the sight of her distress and he immediately scoots closer to hold her, but keeps enough distance between them to let her have her moment.

“Hey,” he whispers, his own frown setting in. “Hey, what’s going on?” She shakes her head and lets go of his hand to scrub her tears away with her palms. “It’s okay, you can tell me.”

He tucks his hand in her curls, setting his palm on her cheek then ducking his head and leaning forward to be inches away from her face. “Dani?”

She shakes her head again and tries to clean up her face with the back of her hand. “I’m fine, I’m fine. I just – it just hit me all at once,” she says, wiping her nose with her palm. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” With the tear streaks off of her face, she grabs onto Malcolm’s hand and leans into his warm touch, taking her time to preserve this moment shared between them.

“Dani, what’s going on–?”

Then, she pulls him into her arms and he latches on, cradling her head in his neck as she does the same, holding her there with his arms around her as they breathe together. Hearts racing for different reasons. She’s not answering him, and he’s not sure if he’ll even get a response at this point. So, he gently rubs her back through her hair until they’ve settled into each other, basking in the morning light of their home.

Now, it’s eating at her. In the crook of his neck, feeling her eyes well up again the longer her words sit on her tongue, Dani quietly whispers, “I’m pregnant.”

Immediately, Malcolm lets go of her and _stares_. She’s holding her breath, waiting for any sign of rejection or fear. They’ve talked about this a million times over, and discussed their fears and concerns months ago before they started trying to conceive but _still_. It doesn’t feel real when she says it out loud, and her heart races at the thought of their family and what it could be – of what _they_ could be.

The reaction she’s worried for doesn’t come.

Instead, he slowly starts to grin as the shock melts away, and he grabs her into a crushing hug in no time. He accidentally knocks her over and they fall down on the bed together, arms locked as her laughter fills the room while Malcolm eagerly tries to kiss every spot on her face. He’s so inexplicably in _love_ with her that he’s left speechless by the best news he’s heard since they got married.

They settle to laying on their sides with their heads leaning on their propped up arms, grinning like idiots.

“Seriously though,” she starts, forcing herself to look him in the eye. “How are you feeling?”

Initially, he shrugs. “I’m happy.”

“I know, but,” then she sighs. “How are you _really_ feeling?”

When he realizes what she’s asking of him, he ducks his head a bit. He hums and nods, shutting his eyes for a moment, thinking. Truthfully, he’s happy. Anxious, but happy nonetheless. “I don’t think it’s really hit me yet. What I _do_ know is that I’m happy for you – for _us_. We get to grow our family,” and the thought warms his heart. “This isn’t about me, love.”

“I know. Just checking in,” she says, smiling.

“Of course.” He returns the smile, lightly stroking her arm. “How do _you_ feel?”

Dani inhales sharply, then exhales with a slight shake of her head. “Scared. Nervous as hell. I don’t know the first thing about being a parent, and how am I supposed to care for a child when I can’t even take care of a plant?” she says, biting her lip. “I don’t want to get this wrong.”

“I don’t think you will,” he says, softly. “I think you’ll be an amazing mother.”

Her heart flutters and her cheeks flush, lips twisting into a shy smile. Lying next to each other in the quiet of their home while the morning sun shines through the window, they find comfort in each other in the middle of the changing tides. They’re going to be _parents_.

Equally thrilled and equally terrified, they stare at each other with a mutual feeling of affection and togetherness.

Whatever the outcome may be, they know that at the end of the day, when everything’s been said and done, they have each other. They have each other, and that’s all they need to weather the storm that’ll come their way.

* * *

Malcolm starts twisting his ring in his lap again.

Ainsley can feel herself getting bored. It’s not that she doesn’t care about his happiness – she’s ecstatic that her brother is, for once, extremely happy with his life. This just isn’t the scene-stealing content she’s trying to pull from him. She makes a mental note to herself to tell the editors to trim this section down.

“You said that you kept your marriage a secret from your father. Did you keep this from him as well?”

He nods. “We agreed to hide the pregnancy from him. The last thing we needed was for him to try and be involved in our child’s life. He would’ve tried to make it about him and strip the focus off of my wife,” he says. “I don’t see it as being selfish on our part, but personally, I especially didn’t want him anywhere near our child. It was a special and intimate time for us, and I refused to have it ruined by him.”

She remembers that conversation. They were eating dinner at their mothers when he broke the news to them.

While his mother was elated to finally have a grandchild, Ainsley could see it in his pinched expression that there’s more to the announcement than what he was letting on. When she pressed him on it, he made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want the news leaving the room. Their father can’t know about this – he wouldn’t know what to do if he did.

Eventually, he and Dani told Gil and JT over lunch one day. JT was especially excited now that they get to join him and Tally with their twin girls, already laminating into him how stressful kids will be the first couple of years and how he can use his insomnia to his advantage. Gil took it a lot better than they were expecting – no tears, just a quiet “congratulations” and gave them both crushing hugs.

(In passing, Gil made a comment to Malcolm about visiting Jackie to tell her the great news.)

They also made it a point to mention that they don’t want any details leaking. The less news, the better, and they’ll deal with Dani’s position in the upcoming months when it’s time.

Later on, they told Edrisa as well, and she eagerly designated herself to be the one who plans their baby shower.

Seven months rolled by quicker than they anticipated. They couldn’t explain it, but over the course of several weeks, their bond strengthened in a way they didn’t know was possible, and they found themselves drawn to each other every waking second. Even with her growing insecurity and his growing fears, they managed to turn their home into a nest of love and acceptance.

Patience is a virtue, and they made sure to approach every situation with humility.

Of course, in true Ainsley Whitly fashion, she doesn’t let him wallow in the memories. She has a job to do.


	6. Chapter 6

Ainsley fixes her gaze on him.

“I can’t imagine what it was like for you when your son was born. For someone who’s suffered extensive childhood abuse and trauma, what was going through your head the day your son was born?” she asks. “What was it like to take on the mantle of being a father after everything your own father had put you through?”

With a heavy sigh, Malcolm chuckles a bit. “It was jarring, to say the least. Looking back on it, I wish I would’ve enjoyed the moment a bit more. But, I understand where my head was at, so I try not to be too hard on myself about it. I was probably more nervous than my wife was!”

Nervous is an understatement. He was downright _petrified_.

* * *

“Malcolm–!”

“It’s alright, baby. I’m right here.”

In an overwhelmingly loud and crowded room, the unbearable pain keeps her grounded and focused on one thing and one thing only.

Brushing a chunk of her hair out of her face, Malcolm rests his hand on top of their intertwined fingers and squeezes to let her know that he’s got her. In the sea of encouraging doctors and nurses, his soothing voice is the only one she hears, and it gives her enough strength for one final push.

Her eyes flutter up to meet his, chest heaving from exertion and her face contorted in unbearable pain, but there’s a mix of fear and uncertainty in her eyes. Doubt – he knows the look by heart. The emergence of tears has Malcolm pushing back the strands of hair from her forehead, then he leans down to whisper something low enough for only her to hear, and it moves something in her to keep going.

Shifting her weight as best as she can manage, Dani brings her chin down on her chest and _screams_.

The most beautiful sound erupts, and the cries of a child fill the room with life.

The sound of wailing is music to his ears. His eyes leave Dani’s to the source of that cry – their child – and his eyes land on the most adorable human he’s ever seen, air leaves his lungs and his heart leaps out of his chest. With sweat plastered to her forehead and the biggest smile on her face, Dani’s eyes meet Malcolm’s with a love that’s strong enough without words.

Jack. Their _son_.

A name chosen by Malcolm in honor of the late Mrs. Arroyo, granted with Gil's blessing.

With the utmost care and gentleness, their son is carefully placed on Dani’s chest, and she immediately wraps her hand around him as he fusses and screams at the world. “Hi,” she coos, exhausted but rejuvenated by him.

She’s enamored by him, so much that she can’t help the tears welling up in her eyes. They’re left completely speechless by the child they’ve created, born from a place enriched with love and pure happiness that money could ever buy.

She must be crying, because Malcolm gently wipes her cheek and kisses her softly on the forehead. “I’m proud of you,” he whispers. “I’m so proud of you, Dani.”

Overwhelmed by every emotion running through her body, his words evoke something so powerful within her that her tears start to flow freely down her cheeks, and he plants another kiss before he gives her some space.

“He’s so small,” Dani whispers, her hand lightly brushing over the wet mop of dark hair. “Why did I carry so big?”

She strokes his soft cheek with her finger and smiles through the tears. “Your dad likes to exaggerate too, you know.” Malcolm puts his hand on his chest and gasps in mock offense, earning a strained laugh from Dani while she keeps her body as still as possible.

As much as he wants to fully enjoy the moment with his wife and their newborn child, his mind is going a mile a minute as his worst fears start to emerge from the shadows to try and take his focus from his son.

From where he’s standing, he doesn’t have a good view of his son’s face that’s nestled tightly in Dani’s chest. Appearances are superficial, he knows this, and he has no control over what genes will present themselves.

From the moment he was conceived, Malcolm loved his son more than words can describe, and he will love him regardless of what he looks like. Still, he knows he’ll be able to sleep better at night if it turns out that he doesn’t look like him.

He’s too caught up in his own thoughts to hear the nurse talking next to him. It doesn’t register until he hears his son start to cry again, then the world comes back to him at full volume. Dani has a look on her face that he can’t quite describe, and it’s not exactly comforting.

“Mr. Bright?”

Malcolm turns his head to the nurse and blinks, suddenly realizing she has probably called his name a few times already. “I’m so sorry,” he gasps, guilt sitting on his chest like an anchor. “I didn’t mean to space out like that.” He quickly turns his body away from the bed and towards her, “I’m listening now.”

It makes the nurse laugh and she sends him a warm, forgiving smile. “No need to worry. I actually wanted to give you these,” she says, and in her hand are a pair of sharp, silver scissors. “We like to ask the partner once the baby’s born if they’d like to cut the cord. You don’t have to, and there’s no rush, but whenever you’re ready, just let me know.”

He stares down at the blade resting on top of her glove. A simple pair of medical scissors, nothing more. “Oh,” he says quietly. They’re shoved into his hands and he reluctantly accepts them, feeling the color drain from his face. “Okay.”

“Perfect!” the nurse chimes, writing off his hesitation as just nerves. “I can show you where to cut.”

The feel of the cool metal in his hands is eerily familiar. His thumb brushes against the handles, fingers loose as his hand begins to shake in his grip, and he can’t remember what it felt like to breathe.

Flashes of his father blind his vision, the pressure of his chest against his back drives the air from his lungs, a gritty scalpel sickeningly smooth on his skin.

“Malcolm?” Dani’s watching him intensely from the bed, attention switching between their son and him.

He can’t get the image of bodies covered in blood out of his head – the idea of what his father’s done with the same pair of medical scissors. He’s seen just about everything you could think of out in the field. Holding this makes his stomach turn.

“I won’t hurt him, will I?”

The nurse looks up from her station. “What was that?”

He swallows thickly, holding his breath, his eyes never drifting from the blade. He’s almost too afraid to ask. “Will it hurt him?”

The nurse cocks her head to the side with a slight frown, then she notices his trembling hand and immediately glances over at Dani, unsure of what to do. When Dani fumbles on her words, the nurse quickly regains her composure. “No, not at all! Your partner can’t feel it and your baby won’t feel a thing. I can help guide you, if you’d like.”

He’s still unsure.

Logically, he knows that the nurse is right, and that everything’s going to be fine.

He spares a glance at Dani, and she sees his silent plea for help and is very much aware of the kind of things that are running through his head right now. She knows how big this moment is, and she doesn’t want him to miss out on bringing their son into the world.

Dani curtly nods, and Malcolm accepts it.

“Okay,” he says, finally looking up at the nurse. “I’ll do it.” The lack of conviction in his voice is palpable, but no one dares to acknowledge it.

“Here, come stand right by me.” Malcolm walks over towards the edge of the bed where Dani’s legs are still propped up, and the nurse moves over to place her hand on the bed closer to Dani.

She takes her time to explain to him, in detail, so he can fully understand before moving forward, and from the top of the bed, Dani smiles, watching him take in every piece of information.

The nurse carefully places her hand with a sheet of gauze under a small section of the thick, dark cord. “You’ll cut here,” she says. “The cord is thick which can make it hard to cut, so don’t be afraid to put a little muscle in there.” Her laugh is meant to be comforting, but his heart is in his throat again.

With the slight tremble in his hand, Malcolm tightens his grip and lines up the scissors with the cord sitting in between the blades. He’s mentally psyching himself up to do it, to cut the line that has given his son life for these past nine months so he can start anew. It won’t hurt him. It won’t hurt him.

It won’t hurt him.

Keeping his hand as steady as it can get, he hesitantly clamps down on the cord with the silver handles between his fingers, holds his breath, and cuts.

The cord unceremoniously splits open, a few drops of blood soaking the piece of gauze, and Malcolm shakily exhales from the effort.

“That’s perfect!” the nurse chimes beside him. Not condescending, but reassuring. “I’ll go ahead and take those,” she says, and gently plucks them from Malcolm’s hands.

There’s something about the tug of the cord that makes his stomach roll, but he refuses to dwell on it any longer now that it’s over with. He flashes a small smile at Dani, and she beckons him with her own smile. He’s standing next to their son in no time, fawning over him with renewed affection.

While he’s occupied with whispering sweet nothings to their son, Dani watches his awkward body language. He’s a bit standoffish despite practically hanging over the railing. Not once has he made a move to touch him, nor has he asked her if he can hold him.

Her heart sinks in her chest.

Some bitter, pessimistic part of her expected something like this. The lingering glances, the quiet inspection, the suffocating fear of causing his son any kind of pain. She knows that after all of their planning, extensive therapy, and constant reassurances, his internal discomfort will go away with time.

Still, watching him interact with their son while his hands stay clasped together at the front of his body crushes her spirit.

He doesn’t want to hold him. It doesn’t take a detective to see that.

For his sanity, she knows she needs to play along and pretend to not notice it. So she keeps smiling, cracks a few jokes that don’t get much feedback, and tends to their son when he wakes up to feed. Malcolm quietly watches it all happen, hands her a blanket when she asks, helps her get situated, and nothing more.

He won’t hold him, and she won’t ask him to, so she will have to settle for this.

* * *

“That’s one of my biggest regrets,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Not being there for my wife when she needed me the most.”

He’s apologized to Dani a thousand times over, and she’s forgiven him over and over again until it seemed like he believed her. Still, he hates himself for getting so wrapped up in his head instead of focusing on being there for his wife and son.

“I don’t think you should be too hard on yourself either,” Ainsley says, slightly frowning. “It’s very stressful for new parents to go through, especially those who are trauma survivors.”

Her head falls a bit to catch his eyes. His eyes meet hers, though he’s slightly caught off guard at the comforting words from his sister. “You didn’t ask for this, so give yourself some credit.

Feeling his cheeks warm a bit, Malcolm’s lips curl into a sheepish smile. “Thanks, Ains.”

She knows that it’s too casual for the interview, that they both should focus on being professional and telling their story. He’s still her brother at the end of the day, and he needs to hear it every once in a while no matter where they are.

She doesn't allow herself to sit in it, and Malcolm quickly readjusts himself to something neutral. They’re here to do a job. They can save the sibling exchanges for after the interview.

Not wanting to keep the interaction too long, she continues. “So, tell me about your son. In an earlier chapter of the book, you mentioned that your mother kept a watchful eye on you, looking for signs to see if you might’ve taken a liking to your father’s crimes. Did you adopt those same tendencies as he was growing up?”

Malcolm shakes his head with a deep frown. He knows from personal experience what it feels like to be constantly monitored, always afraid of making the wrong step in case his mother was watching from afar.

“I didn’t allow myself to think like that. He’s his own person, and I didn’t want to project or perceive him to be other than. I didn’t want to raise him in that kind of environment. We let him grow at his own speed, let him try every new hobby until he got bored then moved on to the next big thing.”

As he got older, they noticed that their son is the spitting image of Dani. With his big, brown eyes and beautiful curly hair, he takes after his mother in other ways than just his looks, and he takes after his father’s staggering intellect.

To their surprise, their son was a bit of a prodigy.

He tried just about every sport until he settled on soccer, and became a star in their circle very quickly. Even with his love for soccer, Jack was very studious when it came to his schoolwork.

Both Dani and Malcolm found his dedication to his studies adorable as young as he was, and he absolutely hated being interrupted when he was doing his assignments.

A couple of times after a long day of work, they would sit in the kitchen, pour themselves a glass and toast to their hard work paying off; having the best kid any parent could ask for.

Of course, as he grew up, the questions started coming.

He often wondered why his father slept in weird leather bands, or why he has four orange bottles with his morning coffee, why his hand constantly shakes, or why he sometimes screams at night.

His mother tells him that he has bad nightmares – _why_ he has them, she never says – and Jack, being as smart as he is, knows that there’s more than what she’s telling him.

Still, he keeps asking.

One day, he came home from school to find the kitchen in complete disarray. Broken glasses, fallen China, and his father lying in a fetal position in the middle of the living room while his mother sat with him, telling him everything’s going to be okay.

When they’re left with no choice but to tell him, Dani does her best to explain it as simply as she can while Malcolm leaves out some of the more graphic details.

Surprisingly, Jack is wise beyond his years, and he understood and adjusted better than what they expected.

“He’s a good kid. You could imagine my surprise when my ten year old told me that he wants to become a doctor,” he says, eyes crinkling as he chuckles. “It stunned me a bit, and it took me a few minutes to work it through my head. But I could tell just how passionate he was about it, and we weren’t about to crush his dreams because it made me nervous. He’s his own person, and we’ll support him in whatever he chooses to do.”

Malcolm loves his son more than he can love himself. Through Jack, Malcolm has learned to take it one day at a time, and come to enjoy the little things in life that every day has to offer.

He praises Dani constantly for instilling her unconditional love into Jack, and she’s constantly reassuring him that they’re going to be just fine as long as they have each other.

Bypassing the sentimental route that’s veering the conversation, Ainsley makes the connection to his father and quickly decides to capitalize on it.

“Have you thought about taking your son to visit your father?”

He slowly nods, a bit hesitant to voice this out loud. “We’ve made the decision before he was born that he wasn’t going to see my father,” he says with a slight frown. “I didn’t want his influence on parenting or trying to twist my words and manipulate my son. He’s good at that, and I wanted no part of it.”

Initially, they stuck to the plan. No visits for whatever reason. While Jack grew up unaware that his grandfather was the notorious serial killer known as The Surgeon, Dani and Malcolm went to great lengths to shield him from any family photos or old newspapers about his arrest. Nothing of Martin existed in their home.

Of course, as he got older, they came to the daunting realization that they can’t hide their son from figuring it out sooner or later. All it takes is a quick Google search, and he would be exposed to every news article, every interview, every little thing he could possibly know about Martin Whitly.

What’s nerve-wracking about that is that their son would know, and will come to the conclusion that they’ve lied to him.

“Unfortunately, we knew that we couldn’t keep it a secret forever,” he quietly says. “The last thing we wanted was for him to get curious and find out for himself, so we made a plan. As much as I resent my father, my son had the right to know, and I couldn’t fathom the idea of him dealing with this news on his own.”

“How did that make you feel? That you were going to expose your son to this person who’s done these awful things?”

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, thinking back on the day he took Jack to see his father. “It was a tough decision. I still don’t know if I regret telling him, or if I’m glad that we dodged a bullet.”

The day he took Jack to see his father was probably one of the more terrifying days of his life.

The absolute _last_ thing he ever wanted to do is hurt his son; to allow him access to the one person who’s responsible for, not only the death of twenty three innocent people, but the source of his father’s ingrained trauma.

Up to that point, they’ve neglected telling Jack why his father is the way that he is. When they stepped into Claremont, he was going to see it, and as their son naturally is perceptive, it won’t take much for him to connect the dots.

He can feel his hand start to tremble in his lap, so he balls it into a tight fist and hides it under his other hand. His blood boils thinking about that day. Thinking about how giddy his father was when he brought him, how he could see the feasible betrayal and hurt in his father’s eyes when he looks down at the boy with the prettiest curls and richest brown eyes.

Of course, as the initial shock wore off, Malcolm allowed his son to ask all of the questions he had (even though there weren’t many) and allowed Martin a good ten minutes with his son.

Ten minutes is all he’ll ever get. After that, he’ll never see him again.

He’ll be out of his life like he’s always been, and no screaming, manipulation, or gaslighting would make Malcolm change his mind.

Ainsley peers into Malcolm with renewed curiosity. She’s never been given the details about the day they took Jack to see Martin, so while this makes for great television, she wants to know everything about that fateful day. “What was it like? Letting your son come face to face with your serial killer father?”

* * *

The regret in his body has never been so heavy.

He hasn’t slept in days.

He and Dani have had numerous discussions about this, what are the risks, and what could happen to Jack if and when he comes face to face with Martin. His father is unpredictable, smart, and possessive – Malcolm isn’t quite sure how his father will react to seeing the grandson he never knew about.

Would he be angry at the fact that Malcolm’s hidden Jack from him for all these years? Or would he be upset at missing then opportunity to groom another child?

He wonders if Martin would ever hurt Jack. He’s been tossing and turning all night with visions of his father with his hands around Jack, a cloth soaked in chloroform that Jack is forced to breathe in, until his eyes slide shut and his father begins to smile.

Jack doesn’t belong to Martin, but Malcolm knows that his father’s going to do his best to leave his mark on whatever he can.

The ride to Claremont has never felt so long before today. Maybe when he was ten seeing his father for the first time, but admitting that would feel too much of a coincidence.

 _This is how mother must’ve felt_ , he absently thinks.

Jack is sitting next to him, talking about something that happened at school but as much as Malcolm’s trying to follow what he’s saying, his mind is going a mile a minute, and he can’t concentrate on what’s happening in front of him.

What will he say when he finds out? What will he do to him? What if he tries to touch him? Where do I draw the line?

Jack knows that his father isn’t listening. While it stings to know that he’s probably been talking to himself for the last five minutes, he can see the worry in his father’s eyes and how exhausted he is.

Not to mention, he’s been acting weird ever since he asked about his grandfather, and every time he tries to find more information about him, his dad shuts him down and keeps telling him, “One day, I’ll show you.”

He can tell that his dad’s upset at something, and he wonders if the reason he’s not feeling good is because he kept pestering him about seeing his grandfather.

A few minutes later, the car pulls up to the curb next to the large psychiatric facility. As he pushes the door open, Malcolm stares up at the building like he wasn’t here just a few weeks ago.

With his son in tow, it feels like he’s walking into the biggest trap of his life, and his suffocating anxiety makes him want to jump back into the car and go back home.

“Dad?”

In an instant, Jack is standing right next to him, staring up at him with his big brown eyes and a faint look of concern on his face. He must’ve been stuck in his head again because he’s still standing by the curb, and the driver is still there, waiting for instruction.

He shakes his head and waves it off, then gently grabs Jack’s hand and starts walking towards the building

Malcolm tells the driver that he won’t be long, and that they should be done in fifteen minutes, no less. This meeting will be brief with no added time – he just wants to get this over with.

For Jack, the big building is a lot to take in.

Malcolm pushes them through security clearance in no time, waving to a couple of guards that work there while walking the halls like it’s routine, and Jack is taken aback by the bleakness of the place.

The shouting in the distance is unnerving, the place looks creepy and abandoned, and he doesn’t like the weird looks from the guards who are dressed in white like it’s a horror movie.

Moving away from the guard that’s leading the way, Jack instinctively clutches his father’s hand immediately, and leans into his side as they walk through Claremont together. “I don’t like it here,” Jack says, eyes darting across the room. “Where are we going?”

Jack leans further into his father’s side for comfort, and Malcolm gently wraps his arm around his shoulder to pull him close, sparing a glance to make sure his son’s alright.

“Dr. Whitly will be in his restraints,” the guard guiding them says. “Rest assured, he won’t make any contact with your son. However, he is considered to be aggressive, unpredictable, and highly dangerous, so please be mindful of that.”

The guard unlocks the red door leading to Martin’s cell and swings it open, allowing for Jack and Malcolm to step through, and locks the door behind him.

“One last thing,” the guard says, turning back around. “Whatever you do, do _not_ step across the red line.”

Malcolm nods like this is his first time hearing it, and waits for the guard to walk ahead of him before he crouches down in front of a worried Jack.

He reaches out and gently takes his son’s hands in his, and he looks up at him to make sure he hasn’t been scared off or is too overwhelmed by everything. “We don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” he reassures him, brushing his thumbs on the back of his small hands. “We can leave at any time, okay?”

Jack stares at him with his big brown eyes and slowly nods.

“Just follow the rules and we’ll be okay. I’ll be right there with you the whole time.” He gives his hands a firm shake before releasing them, and turns towards the looming fate that has kept him up for nights on end.

The big red door creaks open, his guard finishes fastening his cuffs, then Martin turns around to find the biggest surprise he’s had in ages.

“My boy! Back so soon?” Martin beams at seeing his son as if he wasn’t here just a few days ago. The joy of knowing his son will always come back to him never fails, and as much as he claims to hate his father, Malcolm continues to show up even on his worst days.

When Malcolm sets his jaw without saying a word, Martin’s eyes drift to the startled young child standing before him. “And who is this?” Martin asks, a gleam in his eye as he tries to decipher just who this might be.

His eyes bore into the boy standing in front of him, then he glances back up for an answer from Malcolm. “Well, tell me, my boy. Who is this young fellow?”

Unsure of what he should do or say, Jack whips his head to his father, his body slightly turned away from the man in cuffs and tethered to the wall. He doesn’t look like a nice man to talk to.

Malcolm stuffs his shaking hand into his pockets and takes a deep breath before he speaks. “Jack, this is Dr. Whitly. Your paternal grandfather.”

The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth, a truth that he wishes never had to come to light, and it’s only made worse by the empty look behind Martin’s smile.

Martin’s mouth opens but he stops himself from saying anything. His eyes flicker over Malcolm for clarification, to see if he’s bluffing or if this is some sick and twisted game to get back at him for all of these years.

But, when Malcolm adverts his eyes to the ground with nothing else to say, reality sinks in, and Martin’s eyes land on the boy standing just a few feet away from him.

“My boy…” he trials off. Denial sets in, and Martin starts to mentally dissect the boy from head to toe, matching every feature on his face to Malcolm’s but it’s difficult – he probably looks more like his mother.

His _mother_. Which would mean his son is actually _married_. He doesn’t recall seeing Malcolm sport a wedding band during his visits. Which would mean there would be a wedding, photos, a toast to the newlyweds – a woman he’s never met. He takes another long, hard look at the boy.

Or, maybe he has.

Martin shakes his head at the thought, running the numbers in his head to figure out how this is even possible. “Wait a second,” he says, chuckling at the very real possibility that his son is playing an awful trick just to get a rouse from him. Or, the child with familiar curly brown hair is in fact his grandchild. “How old is he?”

Malcolm swallows hard, ready to answer.

“I’m ten years old,” Jack chimes in, fiddling with the hem of his sweater. “I’m Jack.”

“ _Jack_ ,” Martin breathes. “Jack.” He looks up at Malcolm still smiling, but with nothing behind the eyes. “Jack is a _wonderful_ name.”

Jack adverts his eyes away from Martin to the ground. “Thank you. My mom says Dad picked it out.”

Martin raises his eyebrows. “Did he now?” By the door, Malcolm is as stiff as a board, carefully watching their interaction while he profiles his father’s ever changing moods in case he decides to try something he shouldn’t.

Being so high-strung has its perks when the situation calls for it, but dangling around his father when he can strike at any given moment makes him want to snatch Jack and head for the doors.

Naturally, his son is very curious. So, it doesn’t surprise Malcolm when he starts to ask bold questions.

“They said that you’re dangerous. Is that true?”

It stops his train of thought. Martin sputters and tries to come up with an answer that’s too vague for the truth. “Not anymore, no. I’ve spent nearly forty years in this cell – I couldn’t hurt a fly even if I wanted to.”

Jack seems satisfied enough, but he still has more questions he wants to ask him. “My dad says that you hurt a lot of people. Is that true?”

 _That_ gets under his skin. To think Malcolm has the gall to call him manipulative.

“My my my, are we giving away all of our secrets now?” Martin chuckles, but behind the grin is a quiet rage boiling inside of him. So much for first impressions.

“Why did you kill all of those people?”

It’s an innocent question, really. A question that Malcolm wouldn’t dare to ask ever again after everything he’s seen his father do, and it’s killing him not to tell Jack just how dangerous his father is, and just how gruesome his killings were.

Walking as far as he can up to the red line before the tether snaps on the metal lock, Martin inches forward at an agonizingly slow pace until the waistband pulls against his hips.

His father approaches Jack like an animal on the prowl. Malcolm immediately moves away from the door and stands right behind Jack in defense, with his hand placed firmly on his shoulder. He glares at Martin, silently daring him to do something that’ll guarantee he’ll never see either of them again.

Seeing how fiercely protective he is of his son widens Martin’s smile ever so slightly. _How cute_ , he thinks.

“Well,” Martin drawls, leaning forward as much as the rope will allow him. “For a long time, I was _very_ sick. Thanks to the nice doctors that work here, I’m feeling much better than I did all those years ago. I’m not happy with what I did to those people, and I regret it very deeply.”

Malcolm rolls his eyes to the ceiling.

Martin picks up on the hesitance from Jack and decides to take a softer, more meaningful approach. “I’m sorry that your first impression of me is this monster who’s chained up to a wall,” he nervously laughs. “I just wish we had more time to get to know each other better. You seem like a very smart boy. I bet you get that from your father, huh?”

Jack nods, a bit bashful. Martin nods with him. “I can tell. All good grades, I hope?” Jack quickly nods again, and proceeds to tell him about his favorite subjects and why they should allow kids to read their own books in class.

For ten uninterrupted minutes, Malcolm allows Jack to learn about his grandfather and ask questions he never got the answers to from his parents. It’s not instant, but Malcolm can tell that Jack’s warming up to Martin faster than he expected and enjoys this experience far more than Malcolm’s comfortable with.

He keeps a careful eye on his watch, flipping his wrist every other minute and watching the seconds slowly tick by. Ten minutes feels like an eternity when he’s constantly on edge, and seeing his son getting along with his father so well churns an anger so heavy within him that he just wants to take him away right then and there.

The second the hands on his watch crosses the twelve, Martin’s ten minutes are up, and Malcolm doesn’t waste time letting him know that. “Come on, Jack,” he calls, waiting for a lull in their conversation to speak. “It’s time to go.”

“Okay,” he says reluctantly, and turns away from Martin to follow his father out the door.

With a change of heart, Jack turns away from the floor and looks back at Martin with the deepest sincerity. “It was nice meeting you.”

Like a gut punch to Malcolm, he winces at his son’s choice of words. Of all of the things to say, and to _him_ of all people. Dread locks onto his ankles like heavy shackles slowing him down, thinking of the pain his father is about to put him through, so he doesn’t even turn around to see Martin’s face. If only Jack knew the kind of chaos he just unleashed.

With a disgustingly sweet grin, Martin turns on his old man act and makes himself appear smaller and frail, a grandfather who’s just excited to see his grandson and not the serial killer who’s just itching to jump out of his chains.

“It was nice meeting you too, Jack. I hope we can have more conversations like this – of course, you’ll have to make sure it’s okay with your dad.” He throws a wink at Malcolm which gets no reaction.

Malcolm taps on the glass to be released. Martin’s guard unlocks the door and lets the two of them take their leave. Jack hops out in front of Malcolm through the door and starts down the small hallway where another guard in white stands to release them as well.

“Dani, is it?”

Malcolm stops dead in his tracks halfway through the door behind Jack.

“I knew I recognized those features,” he grins. “And boy, did you two raise a fine young gentleman. I have to say Malcolm...I am _really_ proud of you.”

It’s the last thing he wants to hear, but he can’t deny that sliver of validation keeps him from walking out of there when he knows that Martin doesn’t mean a single word he says. He should leave right now. His father has nothing left to offer him, and he’s tired of doing this stupid dance that has gotten him nowhere but strapped to a bed floating on antidepressants.

He’s ruined his own son with his father’s influence for the sake of trying to tell him the truth before he finds out on his own. Maybe it was better they kept him a secret.

“Goodbye, Dr. Whitly.”

As the cell door shuts behind him by his guard, Malcolm grabs Jack’s hand and walks him towards the exit without looking back.

Caught in between the chaos of his father and his grandfather, Jack reluctantly follows Malcolm’s lead without complaint. His father’s too focused on getting out, so Jack takes advantage of the distraction to sneak a look at the man he may never see again.

He’s staring back at him through the heavy metal doors, smiling, but for a reason he can’t explain, there’s something _off_ about the way Martin’s looking at him.

The sound of the door clicks, and Jack is pulled away by his father through the red doors and into the hallways, the man in the grey cardigan growing smaller and smaller until the doors finally shut.

He’s gone, and his father is visibly upset by him, so Jack’s not sure if the man being gone is a bad thing.

* * *

“I didn’t get any sleep that night,” he says, sighing and leaning back into the chair. “I tossed and turned until I was swamped with night terrors, and I was so sleep deprived that I ended up calling out from work the next day. Typically, I’ll allow myself to get consumed with a case to drown out the noise, but I felt like I did something that was permanent.”

His eyes are fixed on the ground, stuck in the memory. “He took it well, better than I expected. But, I couldn’t help but feel like I opened him up to a part of me that wasn’t ready to be seen just yet.”

Later that night, Malcolm had a talk with Jack before bed to make sure that he was okay. He shrugged, telling his father that he was fine and that he just felt _different_.

That especially worried Malcolm; he didn’t know what his child’s version of “different” was, and he tried his very best to leave his profiles at work and not bring them home with him. He might’ve been desperate, but wouldn’t _dare_ profile his own son.

After the visit, Jack never spoke of Martin ever again. He still refers to Gil as his grandfather and Jess his grandmother, but not once did he ever speak of The Surgeon under their roof.

Sometime later in the week, while he’s out with his mother on her off day, Jack lets it slip that he knows why his father is the way he is.

When she heard this, Dani made them sit in the car and talk it out. She assumed that Martin may have said something, or Malcolm misspoke and leaked a piece of his childhood out loud but neither were the case. Their ten year-old son could simply tell by his father’s negative reactions that something bad has happened between them, he just doesn’t know what.

“Not much gets past my son, that’s for sure,” he says with a wistful smile. For what it’s worth, he’s grateful for that. “I promised him that when the time’s right, I will tell him about what happened to me, and why I am the way that I am.”

“Will this be the first time he’s hearing about it? Through a televised interview?”

He shakes head with a soft, “No.”

She hums in response. Her eyes narrow, and she decides to switch gears. “After this interaction, you were still seeing your father periodically. You said that it would be the first and last time your son ever saw your father. I take it that your father wasn’t too pleased to hear that.”

“Not in the slightest, no.”

“If you denied him of contact, it’s not entirely uncommon for him to try and influence through other means.” _This much is true_ , he thinks, nodding his head forward. “Did he ever try to find other ways to reach out to your son?”

He nods. “Yes. Several times, in fact.”

Initially, Martin thought Malcolm was bluffing. That with enough time for his mind to spiral, he would cave in and bring his son to see his grandfather again. What he didn’t anticipate was Malcolm’s commitment to keeping his son as far away from Martin as humanly possible with no hope of contacting him ever again.

In true fashion, Martin had to improvise.

Weekly letters to the Milton estate seemed to do the trick. Jessica isn’t one to sift through all of the mail that comes to her door unless it’s something specifically important.

The day his letter showed up on her front door step straight from Claremont Psychiatric Hospital, she carved it open with the sharpest knife money could buy and read through the sugar-coated threat that was addressed for Malcolm.

Jessica sounded the alarm before she could finish the letter, pure disgust written all over her features. Her heart sank at Martin’s feigned plea to see his grandson again, a child who Jessica cherished more than her life, and she was infuriated to think that he had the right to see him in the first place.

The letters kept coming with the same message written over and over. For the most part, Malcolm told his mother to ignore them, and burn them the second one came across her lap. The letters weren’t a problem until they were being sent to the precinct while Malcolm was at work.

One late evening at the precinct, Dani, JT, and Edrisa were planning a private sendoff for their Lieutenant who’s been holding onto his rank for two decades now.

As much as he loves his work, his age wouldn’t permit him to do a lot of fieldwork, and he knew that father time would catch up to him if he wasn’t careful on the job.

His team knew just how much the precinct meant to him, so they wanted to give him a proper gift, something that he’ll never forget.

All four of them were sitting in the conference room discussing some of the things Gil would appreciate, bickering back and forth about everything and nothing, when a uniform came in to deliver a letter to Malcolm personally.

He excused himself to his desk so he could read whatever his scheming father sent to him. Carefully ripping open the seal, Malcolm pulled out the folded letter hidden inside, and opened the crinkled paper addressed to him.

“How did you feel about the constant harassment from your father?” Ainsley asks, tilting her head a bit.

“Malignant narcissists feed off of being noticed, wanted, and recognized for their actions. Sure, I was irritated and annoyed by the constant letters to my son, but he doesn’t know anything about my family, and I wasn’t going to give into his game and give him the satisfaction that he craved.”

She hums, eyes drifting over his shoulder to the stage manager standing behind Malcolm. Behind the camera, she’s giving Ainsley a signal, and judging by his sister’s frown, Malcolm assumes that she’s being told to speed things along. Ainsley gives a curt nod then readjusts her blazer, quickly fixes her hair, and looks back at Malcolm with a rekindled fire behind her eyes.

A passion for the truth that’s admirable from afar, but not when you’re sitting in the hot seat.

She takes a breath; Ainsley has her sights set on plucking ratings from her brother, and she’s bound to get them before the time runs out. “You have a chapter in your book that’s dedicated to the lowest point in your life. You were personally sent a letter by your father with something written inside of it that you won’t disclose, but it was enough to make you leave work to visit him.”

A lump forms in his throat and he swallows it back. He childishly hoped that she’d skip over this portion, or at the very least, keep the details to a minimum, but this is his sister at work, and he knows that she’s unapologetically ruthless when she wants to be.

“What happened that night with your father?”

His heart depresses at the question, his anxiety spikes and his chest tightens as the memory moves to the forefront of his mind. “I was growing tired of him. The letters went on for five months straight, and arrived at my mother’s home every Sunday morning without missing a day. When his words became more aggressive and alarming, my father knew that I would crack under pressure if he pushed the right buttons.”

A chill runs through his spine. He vividly remembers that night like it was yesterday.

The heavy stench of his father’s cell turns his nose, the simmering anger pulsing through his veins while he stormed through the halls of Claremont as adrenaline carried his feet towards his father’s cage. It was written in a _public_ letter. A secret that was buried with a bloody knife and Endicott’s body all those years ago – the truth about his children that no one outside of their family is supposed to know.

_Have you told Jack about the ice pick? Or, how amazing your sister looks in red?_

“He knew I would come, and I walked right into a trap.”

* * *

Standing by the door with his hands lodged firmly in his coat pockets, Malcolm watches his father ramble on and mess with his bookshelf through narrowed eyes and an eerie calmness.

His father has achieved his goal into getting him here, all riled up and ready for the screaming match of the century, but watching his father squirm on his tether is far more entertaining than wasting his breath.

“You know, I feel like there’s a lot that you’re not telling me, Malcolm. How is my grandson? I haven’t seen Jack in, what, five months now? I hope he’s not missing his dear old grandfather already!”

Martin’s grin is as wide and predatory as ever today. Malcolm can’t figure out why his father seems so on edge; it’s subtle, but there’s enough nervous fidgeting and quick breathing to catch Malcolm’s attention. He’s antsy, more talkative than usual. Itching to say something, but Malcolm can’t decipher what it is or why it’s so hard for him to say it.

He watches his father pace the concrete floor of Claremont, hands free from his cuffs, and cardigan hanging off his shoulders, fresh as it was when he started wearing it decades ago.

As old and withered as his father reaches retirement age, the humor isn’t lost on him, and he hasn’t lost his nerve to rattle Malcolm whenever he steps into the room to see Martin.

“Is he doing okay? Did he get the letter I sent him?” Martin asks, whipping his head around with his signature smile. Malcolm stands idle by the door, without moving so much as an inch with his hands clasped in front, quietly studying his father from across the room.

His silence irritates Martin even further, making him scoff and continue to pace the room.

“You know, I hated your grandfather as much as the next person, but I _never_ forbid you from seeing him,” he seethes, pointing a finger at Malcolm. “We’ve lost ten years, Malcolm, _ten_! How can you sleep at night knowing that you’ve kept an important figure out of his life? What do you think that’ll do to him when he’s old enough to learn the truth?”

He’s fuming, his voice growing louder and angrier, pacing at a speed that makes him turn sharply on his heels. “Do you think you’re clever by hiding your life from me? By hiding _my_ grandchild from me?” His hands become animated, waving wildly as Malcolm stands his ground by the door, completely unfazed. He’s used to his father’s tantrums by now.

He made his decision the day Jack was born; not out of spite, but out of fear and security, not wanting to subject his son to his father’s belligerent narcissism and manipulation. Hopefully, one day, Jack will understand.

“This is a waste of time,” he says, turning to leave.

“If you walk out that door, you’ll never be able to see me again!”

“Maybe it’s better for both of us if I do.” The words sit heavy on his tongue; surely his father didn’t mean that.

Just as he’s about to knock on the door to be let out, a sharp snap echoes in the room and a chain rattles, and Malcolm is yanked to the floor by his collar.

His vision swims as heat spreads to the back of his head when it collides with the concrete, driving the air from his lungs, and making his vision swim and his eyes squeeze shut at the flaring pain at the base of his skull.

The concrete grinds against his body when he tries to roll on his side to get up, but a pair of heavy hands yank his suit to put him on his back and keep him from leaving.

 _No, this isn’t right_ , he vaguely thinks. Flashes of a gray cardigan cloud his vision. _My father wouldn’t do this._

When he feels pressure on his stomach, Malcolm’s eyes snap open, and his heart spikes. His body goes into shock, freezing at the sight above him.

Sitting on his stomach, is his legs sprawled to the side is his father, face contorted in pure rage, wearing the most terrifying expression he’s ever seen in his life, trapping him on the ground with no way out.

Their chests heave for different reasons, hearts beating out of rhythm, perfectly in sync.

_Am I going to die here?_

“Dad–”

“I never should’ve let you live!”

Malcolm stares up at him wide-eyed.

_“I should’ve killed you when I had the chance!”_

Martin fists Malcolm’s collar, knuckles white and shaking. Shaking like he’s physically holding himself back.

“Why did I let you live? Why?” He grits his teeth as he fervently shakes him by the collar, twisting his shirt to put just enough pressure on his windpipe. Though, Malcolm’s not entirely sure if he means to. “Why did I allow you to live?”

Martin breaks off into hysterics, shouting nonsense, pulling at his hair then digging his claws into Malcolm’s chest. His world comes to a screeching halt in an instant. His body is frozen in fear, lying on the cold concrete at the mercy of the man who made it his life’s mission to ruin him.

It’s all led up to this.

Malcolm at his mercy, becoming unmade.

Commotion fills the room. Too much is happening at once, and he can feel himself slipping from consciousness, drifting further and further away from this revelation.

Still in shock, Malcolm watches his father thrash and scream as he’s pulled off of him by a swarm of guards in white, his fury never dampening for a second.

Maybe not his father, but perhaps the screams of a cold-blooded killer. A monster, even.

Time blurs into nothing. He blinks, and he’s walking out of Claremont into the freezing winter night with nowhere to go. The frigid night air makes it hard to breathe, and his coat doesn’t do much to quell the violent trembling throughout his body. Time blurs, and he doesn’t know where he’s going.

He doesn’t know how he got home, but he can’t feel his fingers, and the black pistol in his hands lays perfectly still in his grasp. He can’t feel his fingers or the hand gripping his throat. He can’t feel anything at all.

_“I never should’ve let you live!”_

He notices that his shirt’s come undone. The tie hangs loose around his neck like a thousand dollar noose, and his button up shirt clings to his body like it was threaded into his skin.

The bed sheets are soft. The hand that’s unoccupied runs the tips of its fingers along the smooth, silk fabric, brushing against the tiny textures of dark thread.

He can’t feel his fingers, so he switches the pistol to his other hand, and rests his elbows on his thighs while he sits on the edge of his bed, numb to his core.

Oblivion sits on his mind. His father’s words echo throughout the room, growing louder and scarier than the last. The hollow feeling in his chest doesn’t bother him, because now he can finally breathe again, and his thoughts have never been clearer.

Maybe this is the peace he’s been searching for his whole life.

_“I should’ve killed you when I had the chance!”_

It’s the only way.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

In this blissful moment of peace, a voice interrupts the silence. Watching him from the doorway of their bedroom is Dani, still in her clothes from work, but just as beautiful and radiant as ever.

Beautiful enough to overlook the glistening tears in her eyes.

He’s not sure of the time, but something in his gut tells him that she’s not supposed to be home at this hour.

They’re at a standstill, and Dani’s too afraid to move from her spot. No training could’ve prepared her for this. No training could’ve prepared her to negotiate with Malcolm to talk him down from the steep ledge he’s teetering on.

She sucks in slow, shallow breaths to keep herself focused and her heart rate down; what good is it if both parties are out of control?

“It doesn’t have to be, Malcolm.”

He doesn’t feel like arguing with her, or talking for that matter. He’s too tired. If his father was right, why is she standing in the way of getting what he wants?

His father echoes around the room, laughing and screaming, clawing at Malcolm’s throat and yanking his hair from the roots until it leaves a scar Dani can’t see.

When he doesn’t respond, Dani takes advantage of the opening. Her boots clack against the hardwood floors, echoing through the silence as she begins her slow descent towards him. “Put the gun down, Malcolm,” she says, keeping her voice low and steady. “Put it down.”

She takes another agonizing step closer.

Malcolm doesn’t budge.

She takes another step closer, the shrieking creeks of the wood under her boots warning him that she’s coming closer – he doesn’t have to look up to know that. “Malcolm, I need you to listen to me, okay?” There’s no recognition in his eyes, and it makes her nauseous.

“ _Listen_ to me,” she pleads, practically straining her voice. “You don’t have to do this.”

A pair of strong hands rest on his shoulders.

“Malcolm, look at me. Focus on me.”

_“Why did I let you live? Why?”_

“We can talk about this. It doesn’t have to end like this. Bright? Baby, please, answer me.”

_“Why did I allow you to live?”_

“Don’t listen to him, Malcolm. Listen to me, follow my voice.”

His grip on the pistol tightens in his grasp and his finger curls around the trigger until it’s set, ready to fire.

Standing only inches away from him, close enough to get his attention but too far out to stop him from pulling the trigger, she comes to the daunting realization that she’s about to lose him for good.

Hovering near his thigh is her hand, ready to snatch the pistol from him but her hand’s too shaky for her to focus, too nervous, deathly afraid of what might happen when Jack hears the gun go off on the other side of the house.

It only takes a second to fire.

Resignation in his eyes, heart slowing, he’s ready. Ready to allow himself to bask in the peace he’s been searching for all these years. No guilt, no shame, just acceptance. The pistol moves, and he’s ready.

Ready to let go.

_“I should’ve killed you when I had the chance!”_

The pistol moves, and his hand feels lighter.

The pistol moves, and the cool, dark metal slips from his hand, and he can feel Martin’s grip on his throat loosen ever so slightly. He can feel his fingers again. It’s quiet, and the only sound he can hear is his shallow breathing.

He’s still _breathing_ , but the gun’s gone.

He blinks away the mist from his eyes, coming to consciousness only to be smothered by the smell of citrus.

Surrounding him with her arms, Dani stands between Malcolm’s legs and pulls his head forward to lay on her chest. She gently runs her fingers through his hair. She cradles him towards her with enough room for him to pull away, but he falls forward, sinking as she embraces him.

“Just breathe.”

He doesn’t want to. She took his freedom away, and that sparks an anger in him.

She doesn’t get it. She’ll _never_ get it.

She doesn't know what it feels like to suffer day in and day out, to hate everything about yourself, to wish for death in the middle of the night when you’re awakened by lost girls. She doesn’t _get it_ and yet she’s making the decisions for him.

“I know,” she whispers, stroking his hair. “I know.”

It breaks him.

There’s nothing he can do to stop the tears from coming, and there’s nothing she can do to take away the pain that’s made itself at home between the cracks in his heart and the depths of his mind.

She can kiss him, hold him, tell him that everything’s going to be okay, but deep down in the negative space of her heart, Dani knows that it’ll never be enough. That _she’ll_ never be enough.

She’s powerless against his father.

The only thing she can do is help him ride out the storm when it comes; keep him close as his mind whispers lies and fantasies of dead girls in the oblivion that awaits him at the bottom of the barrel.

No one’s born broken, and some people can’t be fixed.

Quietly sobbing in her chest, Malcolm’s body slouches forward, then he curls his fingers in the back of her shirt, letting out a choked cry and grips her even tighter.

The words of his father are no more, but it’s left a jagged scar on his body, seeping deep into his bones to serve as a reminder that he was right. His father never loved him, and he's wasted his entire life desperately hoping it wasn’t true.

They remain intertwined to one another until his cries start to die down.

When she’s able to coax him into the bathroom for a warm bath, she draws the water for him, then steps out to put the pistol back in their safe; she makes a mental note to change the passcode before bed.

By the time she comes back, the tub is only a quarter full, and Malcolm’s huddled in the corner with his legs up to his chest as he leans against the wall. She sits on the floor by the tub and watches it fill up, only getting up to sporadically add in salts as the water starts to rise.

The rest of her night is spent on the floor of their bathroom, gently scrubbing Malcolm down until the water becomes cloudy and his body has stopped shaking. He’s not with her in the moment, but she gives him some space and allows him to ground himself however he needs to.

She helps him dry off and get dressed after the bath, and when they get into bed, Dani helps him with his cuffs and adjusts the straps accordingly. When she steps out of the room, she walks back down the hall to change the code to their safe, and tells Jack to go to sleep on her way back.

The lights go out, he’s tucked into bed, his body rigid but nonetheless covered. She turns over on her side and carefully snakes one arm around him, fully aware that it’s going to be a long night for them both.

She relaxes against his back with a sigh and kisses him on his shoulder with a quiet, “I love you.”

She leans into the pillow and her eyes slide shut, letting her exhaustion take over so she could get a couple of hours in before the night terrors start.

His body’s rigid against hers, but he doesn’t pull away from her touch. Instead, he brushes his fingers against hers when she kisses him, and quietly accepts those three words.

Malcolm knows that sleeping is impossible at this point after the revelation from his father, and he’s afraid of what awaits him when he closes his eyes.

Eventually, he relaxes against her. The chilling numbness in his bones prevents him from forming words, too tired from living and exhausted from the air still in his lungs. Still, he lets her know that he’s there.

That he’s sorry for making her worry. That he’s sorry for causing pain wherever he goes.

That he’s sorry for allowing her to fall in love with him.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

The room fills with heavy silence.

“Wow,” Ainsley says in the quiet of the room, speechless.

This is news to her.

Sure, the less glorifying details are left out of the book, and sure, he may have mentioned it once in passing. But, up until now, they’ve never had a heart-to-heart about it, and he never confided in her about just how close he came to doing something so permanent.

She wishes that the first time they had this conversation was not in front of millions of people.

Malcolm slowly nods, defeated. “Yeah.”

It’s one thing to read it in a book with inked words etched on sheets of paper; it’s another thing to hear the retelling in person with the haunting emotional context behind it.

Sitting across from her brother under the studio lights, listening to him talk about his suicide attempt and watching his heart break with every single detail spilling out of his mouth, wincing like it hurts him to say it.

She’s almost afraid to ask the next question.

Then, she remembers she has a job to do and, unfortunately, this makes for great TV. “What happened after that?” she quietly asks.

Reliving something as traumatic as that leaves a horrible taste in his mouth. Therapy has become his cornerstone, a path he can rely on instead of ignoring his pain and focusing on coping with the memories left by his father’s ruin.

He’s made his peace with everything Martin Whitly took from him; it nearly cost him his life, and _that_ is something he’ll always remember.

His hand trembles in his lap with such vigor that he puts both hands in his pockets, ignoring how awkward he probably looks. Then he takes a deep breath before continuing, and looks straight into the camera instead of the shadow lingering behind Ainsley. “That was the last time I ever saw my father.”

The choice was made clear. Not just to him, but to everyone around him. He’s not sure what happened to his father after the encounter, and he never cared enough to call and ask.

“I couldn’t get out of bed for a week. The night terrors ruined any chance of sleep I ever had, I didn’t have the energy to work a case, I couldn’t hold any food down – I fell into one of the worst depressive spells in years. My son had a game at school that week, and as much as I wanted to go and watch him play, I just couldn’t.”

The encounter left him with more nightmares than waking hours, and with the uptick in severity of his hallucinations, he knew that he would only serve as a distraction at the precinct rather than a productive consultant.

He never told his team what happened, just that he needed to take some time off from work; the last thing he wanted to do was give Gil something else to worry about as he was setting up to retire.

He couldn’t get the image of his father sitting on top of him, fistfuls of his shirt, screaming and yelling obscenities in his face out of his head.

For months, it was the same nightmare over and over, the same nightmare that wakes him up in the early hours of the morning, drenched in sweat and screaming bloody murder while Dani does her best to work him through it.

His night terrors became so intense that she ended up sleeping on the floor next to their bed to avoid getting hit in the process.

All of this because he took his son to see him.

To this day, he’s not sure if it was destined to happen, or if he actively made the biggest mistake of his life.

“I can’t even begin to imagine what that must’ve felt like, Malcolm.”

It’s one of the many things about his life that he refuses to share. It’s hidden in a trunk under his bed as far away from him and his family as possible, because he’s so tired of waking up screaming every night with the same nagging feeling of being a burden even after all of these years.

However, through his extensive therapy, he’s learned that some things aren’t meant to be kept forever; you can let go of the pain without diminishing how it made you feel – validation should be consistent while shedding some of that hurt along the way.

For Malcolm, his journey to healing has been full of setbacks and major pitfalls that have taken him back to being that scared little boy in his mother’s basement.

Sitting in a chair across from his sister with his life on full display for the world to see, Malcolm never imagined that this would be as cathartic as it is.

Of course, they are hooked up to microphones, surrounded by sweltering studio lights, and professional-grade cameras but to him, it feels like he’s having an honest conversation with his sister, prompted by her own curiosity.

They haven’t talked to each other like this since Martin’s passing. He then realizes how much he actually misses his little sister.

“How were you able to move past what happened?”

Through her continuous commentary, he can feel the interview slowly getting back on track and his nerves beginning to subside while the tension he’s been holding leaves his body. He swiftly sits up and readjusts his suit jacket so it fans out at his side, then huffs out a shaky sigh before his eyes meet his sister’s.

“It took some time,” he says, bobbing his head side to side for vagueness. “But eventually, I was able to get back to my own sense of normalcy. I had my team supporting me from afar, and I had my family to get me through the harder days.”

There aren’t enough words for him to describe how thankful he is to have all of these people in his life.

He doesn’t have to say a word for them to understand that he needs time to breathe, and he doesn’t have to explain what happened for them to understand what he’s going through. After all of their years of being together, Dani still has the patience of a saint, and nothing he does will be equivalent to the love and humility she continues to give him.

“I didn’t expect my son to be the one who made me see things differently. My wife’s been so instrumental in my recovery that I pushed my son away; I couldn’t stomach the idea of him seeing me like that.”

Even though he’s done his best to hide the worst of it from Jack, the kid can handle more than he gives him credit for, and Malcolm has learned to let his son in when it gets bad instead of shutting him out.

It took him years to finally realize that he was doing the exact same thing Jessica did to him all those years ago. Sure, hers was out to grief and misplaced anger, but the principle was the same, and he vowed to end the cycle right then and there.

Malcolm’s head falls to the side a bit, quietly lost in thought as his heart swells with pride in his chest. “He’s such a sweet kid.”

* * *

If only the rain could lull him back to sleep. Then again, he knows what’s waiting for him if he gives in to his exhaustion, and he doesn’t have the energy to fight against the demons waiting for him on the other side.

His sheets have never been softer. They soak up his tears so well, and they dry his face, leaving it cracked and withered as evidence of his father’s latest torment. Though, it’s more or less actual torment than the cold, hard truth that he refuses to accept.

He’s not sure what day it is. He could reach over and check his phone to see, but the phone is a foot too far, and he’s pretty comfortable wrapped up in the sheets.

Then, he hears the door knob turn, and he can’t seem to hide himself under the covers fast enough. He quickly turns away from the door and buries himself deeper into the covers to avoid the pending conversation. Shouldn’t Dani still be at work?

“Dad?”

At the sound of his voice, Malcolm’s eyes snap open. For a split second, he debates turning around; maybe he should pretend to be asleep, or maybe he should just tell him to leave so that he doesn’t catch his “awful cold”.

As much as his gut is telling him to avoid the situation at all costs and remain in his bed, he can’t stomach the fact of turning his own son away.

He hasn’t seen him or heard his voice in days, and he hasn’t gotten a hug from him in so long.

In his heart of hearts, Malcolm _misses_ his son.

He makes up his mind. “Hey,” he says, rolling over to face the door. “What’s up?”

There’s no doubt in his mind that he looks disheveled and unkempt in the worst way possible. When it comes to Jack, he doesn’t care about appearances.

He stands by the door, twisting his hands at his sides, probably debating if he’s allowed to be in there in the first place. Dani’s not home, which means he’s home from school, and he probably wanted to sneak in to see he could finally see his dad.

Malcolm’s heart aches that he’s been away from his son for days now. He can see it in his beautiful brown eyes and the way he holds himself. Hesitant, scared, stuck between running out of the room and running towards his dad.

His brows dip as he watches his son debate his options, so Malcolm puts an end to it. “Come here,” he says, patting the space next to him. Jack flinches, refusing to move. “It’s okay, Jack. You’re not in trouble.”

Jack peers outside of the door then back into the room, and fixes his eyes on the floor, twisting his hands, still unsure. “Come sit with me,” he tries, situating himself on the bed for him. “Did you just get home from school?”

Jack nods.

“Want to tell me what you learned today?”

For a moment, Jack thinks about it. Then, he looks up at his dad and nods. “Here,” Malcolm says, finally sitting up. “Close the door. Come sit with me.”

Jack carefully shuts the door behind him before turning around and walking over to his parents’ bed, hoisting himself up and sits on top of the soft sheets.

Malcolm’s laying against the headboard, his body still covered in sheets. When Jack gets up on the bed, Malcolm opens his arms to his son with a weary smile, and Jack pushes himself forward to land against his father’s chest, snug in his warm embrace.

For a while, they sit in the silence of the room without saying anything.

Sometimes, it’s better that way.

Sighing, Malcolm pulls Jack closer and lays his head on top of his, squeezing him tight before easing up and giving his son enough room in case he wants some space. Jack takes the opening and leaves the hug, but he sits right next to his dad, no intention of leaving.

“Oh!” he exclaims, “I almost forgot.”

He watches his son dig in his pocket for something through knitted brows and genuine curiosity, a smile tugging at his lips as he struggles to find it.

He eventually finds whatever’s hiding in his pocket and pulls it out to show Malcolm. Moving his head to get a good look at it, Jack gives his father a green piece of hard candy eerily similar to the ones that Gil used to give him.

“And where did you get that from?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, mom said that you weren’t feeling good so I called Grandpa. I asked him how I can cheer you up and he told me to get you these candies, see?”

He puts the green piece of candy on the bed in front of them with a sheepish smile. “He said you really liked the green ones, so I asked Grandma’s driver to get me some.”

Malcolm stares at the little piece of candy on the bed in front of him, relishing in the feeling that it brings him. The feeling of Gil’s phantom fingers gently squeezing around his neck and reassuring him reminds him of home, and what it felt like to be held and cared for when he needed it the most.

“Are you mad at me?” Jack quietly asks, eyes peering up at his father.

Instead of responding, Malcolm gently pulls Jack into another hug, and kisses the top of his head.

“Thank you,” he mumbles into his hair. “Thank you _so_ much.”

Slowly, he starts to crumble again, his throat tightening and his lips pursed in a line as he’s overwhelmed by Jack’s efforts to make him happy. _God_ , he’s missed him so much. What on earth did he do to deserve him?

Malcolm sniffles and readjusts his head so he can still be close to his son.

Jack has seldom seen his father get upset, but on the few times he has, his mother is always there to hold him when he needs it. The way that she brings him close works every time, because as soon as she has him, she’s able to calm him down and take away all of the pain he’s feeling.

So, he follows her example. Jack snakes his arms around Malcolm’s back and holds him the same way his mother does (or at least, something close to). He cradles his head on his father’s shoulder and quietly whispers, “It’s okay.”

Those simple two words cut him deep, feeling like his heart is going to burst out of his chest. As tired as he is, he can’t conjure any more tears, but he feels a hell of a lot better than he did when he woke up that morning.

The voices stop their screeching, his father nothing but a burning afterthought.

Love. It amazes him how much of it is in such a small body, and how lucky he and Dani are to be the ones to receive it.

* * *

“I’m grateful for my son,” he says, eyes drifting to the ground. “He’s helped me more than he’ll ever know.”

The sentiment brings a warm smile to Ainsley’s face.

Her nephew is probably one of the sweetest, most ambitious but humble kids she’s ever met, and she never once questioned Malcolm and Dani’s ability to raise a child with the odds they are up against.

The challenges and roadblocks were there before they got married, and for Ainsley, to see them make it out on the other side with a child feels like she’s witnessed her brother do the impossible.

“I know you mentioned before that you’ve shared some of your past traumas with your son. You also said that this interview isn’t the first time he’ll become privy to what your father did to you as a child. How did you go about making the decision to tell him, or _what_ to tell him?

They’ve talked about this for years, even before Jack was born. Malcolm remembers the late night conversations he would have with Dani about this – when will it be the “right” time to tell him?

“He was ten when the attempt at Claremont happened. After that, I stopped seeing my father for four years.” Speaking about his suicide attempt out loud after so many years still puts negative taste in his mouth. Attempts are associated with weakness and experiencing a loss of control, both of which his father subconsciously drilled into him.

The last thing he wanted to do was spend a week wearing white with strangers he didn’t know; so, he made a promise to his family to stop the visits and get the proper help that he desperately needed.

“At the time, I didn’t feel comfortable sharing my story with him. As smart as he is, he was still too young to fully grasp the kind of weight that trauma carries.”

Even at a young age, Jack could understand enough about his father without feeling like he needs to know why he takes all of those pills, or why he struggles to sleep at night; he just accepts it as is and never questioned it.

“It wasn’t until he was a little older and began to learn bits and pieces of psychology at school that he started asking various questions about the human mind and how it processes our emotions.”

Ainsley shoots him an incredulous look. “A conversation about psychology led you to tell your son about what happened to you?” she deadpans, arching her brows. If anything, this is the most Malcolm Bright thing she’s heard in ages.

Malcolm bites off a laugh and raises his hands in a defensive position. “He was just shy of his fourteenth birthday when we had that conversation. I talked it over with my wife, and we agreed that he was old enough to understand. He has seen the symptoms and the reactions of my trauma; we’ve never told him why they exist or why I am the way that I am,” he shrugs his shoulders forward a bit.

“He deserved to know.”

The day he thoroughly told his son about his trauma was the week before Martin fell ill.

Horrible timing as always, his father was back in his life with the worst news possible, and Malcolm felt like his life was spinning into disarray once again. The day he told him is one he refuses to relive. Sure, his son was old enough to understand and listen with an open mind.

It was the dizzying, nauseating part where he had to describe it in detail. Now that he’s much older, he’s worked extremely hard to get to a healthier state of mind where shadows don’t follow him as much, and he doesn’t have to decompress after every case or sit in Gil’s office until he can breathe again.

Still, the crushing vulnerability that came with bearing his soul for his son to see, in all of its ugly glory made him lose his appetite for days, and when the news of his father broke by an emergency phone call from Ainsley, he didn’t have anything left to throw up.

It feels like he can’t get comfortable in his chair, and the air in the room becomes warmer and stuffier, his tie a bit too tight around his neck.

He resists the urge to loosen it by staying poised and upright, but his hands are increasingly fidgety with nowhere to put them. If there’s any indication that he doesn’t want to continue to talk about it, now would be the time.

Unfortunately, they’re entering his least favorite part of the interview.

The whole point of the entire interview is to talk about the death of The Surgeon one year later, so, naturally, this is the highlight of the entire one hour segment. People want to know how The Surgeon died, what he looked like when he was lying on his deathbed, and if he begged for mercy in his final hours.

They’ll want every single juicy detail of his last few minutes from Malcolm’s first-hand account, that no stone should be left unturned when they discuss the death of a famed serial killer.

“The year before my father passed, he became very sick. Natural causes, old age was catching up to him alongside an accelerated memory loss. We had no choice but to move him into a space where he had around-the-clock care, while under constant supervision. He may have been old, but don’t let the age fool you.”

Ainsley almost chuckles at that. “The Surgeon was still a threat even while under heavy surveillance and coupled with his memory loss?” she asks, bridging her eyebrows.

“Well, no. Not really. He wasn’t an active threat, but when his memory started slipping, he was coughing up names we’d never even heard of. When we curated a list, we cross-examined those with any cold cases from the time he was active until his arrest.”

Practically on the edge of her seat, Ainsley leans in with wide eyes and a hushed tone, peering in as if he’s about to tell the biggest secret. It’s not. The media had already run that story over a year ago when the news found its way to a nosy reporter, and the rest is history.

“And then what?”

“We uncovered four more unsolved murders. Judging by the methods in which they were disposed of, we’re more than confident that my father had tortured these four innocent people, and left them for dead. We notified the last family listed, but a young woman’s file was left without a valid address or phone number. Unfortunately, she died alone.”

Amends have been made with the families of the victims, but the pain of getting answers forty years too late practically means nothing when The Surgeon got off pretty good.

It brings up sore memories for a lot of families. How is it that the man who took twenty seven innocent lives was allowed to live out his entire life and succumb to old age and memory loss rather than a healthy dose of state-sanctioned lethal injection.

The fact that Martin Whitly was allowed to live past seventy is a terrible burden on the families who are still suffering from what he’d taken away from them.

Every day in his line of work, Malcolm is always reminded that the victims of his father’s crimes are out there, mourning their loved ones without any shred of real justice to ease some of their grief.

“Walk me through the night that your father passed away. What was happening, what was the atmosphere in the room like, who was with you – things of that nature?”

This is the moment he’s been dreading since he woke up that morning, and knowing Ainsley, she’s not going to let him off easy if he tries to skim over any details.

Malcolm hasn’t gone a day without thinking of the night his father died. It’s been a constant circling thought as he was wrapping up his book before it was sent to his editor, but even then, he’s not sure if he’ll ever forget it once this is all over.

It was a day that he’d been looking forward to and dreading just as much.

* * *

This was his only escape.

Except, this isn’t a double homicide that needs to be profiled, and there’s no serial killer case that’s left to be solved.

There is nowhere to run, because his father’s race is coming to an end, and it’s too late for him to coddle himself from witnessing him cross the finish line.

Lying in the hospital where Malcolm and Ainsley were born is Martin, hooked up to the finest machines money can buy, breathing shallowly but it doesn’t stop his signature smile from shining through.

Standing next to his bedside is his entire family, all wearing different expressions of mixed emotions, dressed in black as if they woke up this morning knowing that today would be the day.

He never thought that the next family reunion would be his last, and he never expected his son to be the one who got to make the final decision.

It’s ten minutes before midnight.

The heart monitor slowly beeps along with Martin’s shaky wheezing and the clack of Jessica’s heels pacing back and forth outside of the room while she yells at some poor floral assistant.

His children stand quietly, Ainsley standing at his bedside and Malcolm watching just a few feet away, neither daring to speak.

It’s too dark in the room for Martin to try and make out Malcolm’s face, but he can see Ainsley’s tears threatening to spill over clear as day, and though she’s got her arms wrapped around her body to stay upright, he can tell in his distant consciousness that she’s straining herself from expressing her grief and sadness.

She takes a shaky breath in, nose already clogged, and exhales, eyes never leaving her father. Upset would be an understatement, and he hates seeing his children upset. “Oh, come here, sweetie,” he croaks. “Come here.”

“I’m here, dad.” She leans over the rail and immediately takes his hand in hers. “I’m here.”

Sitting up in his bed, he lulls his head to the side to look her in the eyes and pulls his hand out of her grasp to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, and smiles when she accepts his touch. “My baby girl,” he muses, and Ainsley flashes a watery smile, tears falling down her cheeks.

“Awh, honey,” he frowns despite how loopy he is. “Don’t cry. No more tears, okay?” Martin’s finger brushes against her cheek to collect her tears but he keeps missing them, and Ainsley forces a laugh, wiping them away with her own hand. “I won't,” she sniffles, scrubbing her face dry with her hand. “No more tears.” She stares down at him, smiling, and he smiles with her.

Watching his miniscule movements from across the room, Malcolm knows that his father doesn't have much time left. He flips his wrist to check the time: six minutes till midnight.

Making her presence known, Jessica marches back into the room with her phone in hand and quickly shuts the door behind her. “Damn florist. How was I supposed to know they don’t deliver on Sundays?” She shoves her phone back into her purse, grumbling, then walks over to Martin and crosses her arms. “Oh, you’re still here.”

The looks from their children could put _her_ six feet under, but Jessica ignores it and just waves them off with her hand. “Spare me.”

It earns a tight chuckle from Martin that quickly morphs into a coughing fit that has Ainsley bending over to help him sit up and Jessica rolling her eyes despite the minuscule ache in her heart. Malcolm just watches.

“Just as sharp and beautiful as I remember,” Martin wistfully says. The comment makes Malcolm wince.

Ever since his memory started slipping, it was a hard adjustment for everyone, especially Malcolm. They asked him over and over what he could remember, testing his reach, the things he did to Malcolm when he was a child but he kept faltering and getting frustrated when nothing came to the surface.

Ainsley can’t console herself, Jessica is indifferent, and Malcolm’s undeniably frustrated.

Martin shouldn’t get to get off that easy; sure, he can’t control what his illness does to his body, but the intense bitterness in his heart told him otherwise.

Even though he’s no longer the child watching his father get taken away by police, a part of him will always struggle to make peace with the things his father did to him and felt no remorse over.

With the sweltering hostility in his heart, Malcolm doesn’t know how to feel watching his father succumb to death right in front of him.

A couple of nurses walk into the room as if I’m cue. They tend to Martin, but everyone in the room knows it’s a fruitless effort. He has a handful of minutes left on this earth, perhaps less.

Martin croaks when the coughing subsides, but he’s wheezing and uncomfortable in his bed, and he probably feels his light dimming, too.

It’s time, and the worst thing about the end is that no one’s ready to say goodbye.

With a hate that runs skin deep, Malcolm finally moves from his spot over to the bed and stands right behind Ainsley, expression void of anything other than resignation.

Jessica’s only a couple of feet away by the end of the bed but she doesn’t make the initiative to move.

Ainsley’s tears are gone, replaced with a broken heart full of mixed emotions and regret in her chest that’s full of the things she never got to say.

One of the nurses approaches Malcolm and stands just out of eyesight. “Whenever you’re ready,” she says then quietly steps away.

He nods. “Okay.”

* * *

“And then what happened?”

She won’t let up, and it’s beginning to stress him out. Stuffing his shaky hand into his pocket, Malcolm forces himself to stay still in his chair and focus on telling the next half of the story.

* * *

Upon hearing his voice, Martin turns his head to the source of the sweet melody, and Malcolm feels his stomach drop, then forces himself to look his father in the eyes.

Some might say he has no remorse for the man; others will say his silence and closed body language is that of a child who’s scared of losing their father.

His wistful smile is back when his face lights up in sudden recognition, and he beckons his son to come closer. “Malcolm.”

The sound of shock from his father makes him want to gag. He’s gotten used to being wiped from his father’s memories; confusing him with uncles and grandfathers and sometimes even his patients.

Martin hasn’t said his name in months, and of course, with his luck, he just so happens to remember who his own son is right before he punches his clock.

“Father,” he replies, swallowing thickly. “Do you recognize me?” He’s not sure which answer is worse.

Under his folding skin, Martin manages a frown, dumbfounded. “Well I – of course I recognize you. You’re my son,” he says, the end a bit too chipper for his mood. “You’re my son, my–”

His speech starts to slur, his eyes drooping a little bit and the sound of his slowing pulse raises the heartbeats of everyone in the room.

Ainsley anxiously calls to him, “Dad?”

Martin’s eyes flutter shut as his chest depresses into the bed like he’s sinking in it, his heart rate dropping by the second, and Malcolm loses the ability to breathe as if the air’s been sucked out of the room.

He flips his wrist to check the time on his watch. Three minutes until midnight.

As much as she hates his entire existence, watching another person struggle to stay alive is uncomfortable in the worst way possible, unnerving Jessica to her bitter core.

She’ll happily dance on his grave when he’s six feet under or gets tossed in the Hudson if that’s what he wants, but standing here in the room listening to his body shut down with every breath almost conjures sympathy in her.

The monitor resounds to something normal. “My boy…”

Malcolm’s expression tightens. With pinched brows, Martin musters all of his strength to move his head so he can face Malcolm, and slowly opens his eyes again to get a good look at him.

“My boy,” he says again, quieter. “Come – come here for a sec…”

Beckoning to his request, Ainsley shoots a teary-eyed look at Malcolm. “Here,” she says, hastily moving out of the way to stand on the other side of the bed.

It leaves an opening for Malcolm to stand right where she was, closest to him, and with enough decency to not make it any less awkward, Malcolm shuffles closer to his father.

He’s not heartless, but it’s not like he has a choice. They’re only inches away from each other. Somehow, it feels like he’s being suffocated even though he’s not the one that’s fading in a hospital bed.

Fingers gliding against the smooth thread of his tan blanket, Martin’s hand inches closer to the rail of the bed towards Malcolm. It’s happening in slow motion and his mind supplies the worst case scenario, that his father is about to do something that guarantees he’ll never be able to sleep again.

Then, in the dead of night, two words echo throughout the room. Two words that don’t apply to his father, words empty like the bottomless pit in his heart, void of anything genuine and real.

Martin‘s eyes open fully, taking all of his energy to look his son in his eyes and show him how much he means it. With undeniable conviction, Martin utters two words that Malcolm’s been needing to hear his entire life. “I’m sorry.”

His words don’t quite register. So much is happening in his body that he doesn’t know where to put it, numbing him like he’s moments away from shutting down and losing consciousness completely. Even Jessica and Ainsley share looks of confusion and indifference.

“People like to squirm when they’re desperate and running out of time,” Jessica mutters, disgust dripping from her lips. “But I suppose it’s normal to have regrets at this stage.”

“I’m serious,” he says, wheezing. “I mean it. All of you, for putting through that. From the bottom of my heart, I’m very, _very_ sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

“You ruined our lives,” Malcolm says, but he’s too exhausted to debate with him. His time is up, and he’s tired of saying the same thing only to get nowhere.

Martin’s hand inches closer to Malcolm’s resting on the rail, looking into his eyes, pleading. “I’m especially sorry to you, my boy. What I did,” Martin just shakes his head at the horrible things he’s starting to remember. “I wish I could take it all back.”

He stares at his father. There’s something so indescribably _wrong_ about this that he’s left utterly speechless by his display of...repentance?

His expression is empty and hard to read, soaking up his father’s words like a sponge and wondering why it makes him feel sick to his stomach.

This isn’t happening.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. This little game, this charade has to be his final act, the big finale he’s been dreaming about since the day he was told he would never leave his cushy cell. One last trick to spite his family.

Even so...

Even if this is one last game for him to play, Malcolm can’t find it in himself to fight against it any more than he already has. Frankly, he’s exhausted, and he’s tired of running in the same spot he’s been in for years.

He takes a deep breath in, and exhales, then looks over at his father. Their eyes meet one another’s, and Malcolm instantly feels a wave of resentment leave his body, replaced by a crushing loneliness he can’t put into words.

He steels his expression to something too passive for his father to read and gathers what’s left of his sanity before he backs out and stays in this rut forever.

It’s been a long time coming.

He’s in a much better place to say this than he was twenty years ago, and he’s in a healthier state of mind to accept the truth he’s been avoiding his entire life. He’s been practicing this in therapy for decades, and he knows that if he doesn’t say it now, it’ll burn a hole in his heart until it’s the only thing left on his mind.

Whether or not his father actually _deserves_ to hear this is a question he can save for another time.

“I forgive you.”

His words catch Martin off guard.

The room is stunned to silence.

Jessica looks between him and his sister, trying to understand what’s happening, frowning like she’s missing something. She’s taken aback by his words while Ainsley stands quietly with no intention of commenting. She allows her brother the floor to say what he has to say.

“I forgive you,” he repeats, voice traveling through the room. It hurts the second time he says it, settling uncomfortably in his gut. Where he questions himself if he even believes what he’s saying.

It’s taking all of his strength to admit to himself that it’s over, and to let the hurt and the pain wash away so he can finally move on to live his life unchained and detached, free from the tether that has bound him to a wall like his father’s.

He just wants this to be over.

Martin’s droopy eyes trail down to Malcolm’s shaky hand gripping the bed rail, then trail back up to meet his eyes again, frowning. “My boy,” he says, worried that he’s upset another child. “It’s okay. I know it’s a lot.”

Malcolm scoffs. His words get slower and slower, and this time, Malcolm thinks this might be it. The end of the rollercoaster he’s been forcibly strapped down to from the moment he found a girl in his basement.

Immediately, his eyes shut and his hand balls into a fist to stop shaking but it’s impossible when he’s around, picking up on all of his tells, and not allowing him to just breathe on his own.

In his head, he tries to take a ten count and let the rush of adrenaline fade. It works for the most part, until his father is talking again, and very softly says, “Please.”

When he opens his eyes, Martin’s hand is flipped over on the back, palm exposed to the air, waiting to be held. He’s staring at his only son, face contorted in discomfort, silently begging him to do one last thing for him.

To hold his hand.

Malcolm stares at his hand like death is just a touch away. The _audacity_ of his father.

He blatantly ignores the invitation. He’s not going to give him the satisfaction.

“No.”

Martin looks at him in faded disbelief, probably feigning hurt to gain the sympathy of the nurses watching, and perhaps the sympathy of his mother and sister.

“My boy,” Martin says, feeling himself letting go by the second. “ _Please_.”

He looks down at his father with nothing behind his cold expression. Hearing him _beg_ stings for a second time, but Malcolm refuses.

Call it cruel, selfish, heartless to reject his father’s last wish but he doesn’t give a damn about what he wants. He’s ruined every aspect of his life, and he’s never been able to live in peace without his father on his mind every waking second.

There’s the lingering guilt that _always_ holds him back from taking a stand against his father, for letting him take over without getting the chance to say ‘no’. He’s not a horrible person, but his father is no saint.

“Malcolm,” Ainsley whispers, probably stunned by his show of defiance, but he could care less what she thinks right now. The same goes for his mother.

It instantly breaks Martin's heart, his mouth falling open ever so slightly.

“My boy–”

“I’ve given you the decency of forgiveness. Don’t mistake that for comfort.”

Martin’s expression falls apart, and Malcolm slips into a distant numbness.

A sudden coughing fit has Martin clutching his chest, painfully wheezing, eyes squeezed shut as he struggles to catch a breath while Malcolm stares in disdain.

The pair of nurses in the room run over to his bedside to make sure that he’s okay, helping him sit up to relieve some of the pressure, but it’s not enough.

Malcolm flips his watch again. One minute until midnight.

Nothing works, because Martin is hanging on by seconds now, desperately trying to reach out to his family before it’s too late, and the coughing speeds the process along a bit too quickly.

The monitor slows to a turtle's pace that brings everyone to the sides of his bed and the nurses to stand behind them and watch.

“It’s okay, dad,” Ainsley mumbles through a new wave of tears, as she carefully rubs his leg, reassuring him. “It’s okay.” His bleary smile only lasts a second, but Ainsley holds onto it anyway.

She moves her falling hair and tucks it behind her ear as tears fall down her face, Jessica watching her with an expression soaked in pity, and Malcolm just looks off to the side.

Martin’s lips meet, and his eyes finally slide shut. Upturned on the bed is his hand, still seeking his son’s touch as he feels himself fading, but in the darkness that begins to surround him, his hand remains empty, touched only by the frigid hospital air.

The sound of the monitor going off is incredibly numbing.

Flateline.

Time of death: 12:01 A.M.

It marks the end of an era, the end of suffering for some, but further agony for many more.

He’s never seen his mother so quiet and reserved, Ainsley quickly excuses herself and makes a beeline for the door, while Malcom remains helpless by his father’s side with the heaviest of hearts.

Jessica throws her head back and groans. “Let me go find your sister,” she says, and exits the room. Malcolm guesses that she’s not actually going to look for Ainsley, but he doesn’t blame her for wanting to escape the most brutal part of this.

The room feels empty now. The walls aren’t cloaked in resentment and hostility, but instead, they’re dripping with vacancy and haunting discoloration.

Standing away from the bed now, he watches the team of nurses assist his father’s body as they tend to the machines and remove the lines from his skin.

If there's any silver lining to what he's feeling right now, his hand is no longer shaking, and he doesn’t feel like he needs to run to the nearest bathroom. Instead, a chilling quietness settles around him.

He’ll never admit it out loud or to his therapist, but as he stands here, staring at the white sheet being lifted to cover his father’s face, there’s nothing left but the cold, distant emptiness within.

The most depressing thing about all of this, is that he’s not even sure if his father was genuinely sorry for what he’s done.

Feeling his shoulders become much heavier, Malcolm heaves a sigh.

“Happy birthday to me.”

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

Once again, Malcolm has managed to stun the studio into uncomfortable silence. No one is supposed to be talking anyways, but the energy in the room is unmistakable.

This is a great preview for when the interview goes on air across the nation with millions of people glued to their TV’s – and they haven’t even gotten to the best part yet.

She’s already estimating the social media response in her head: the articles, the follow-ups, the press release, the praise for her astounding journalism, not to mention what the higher-ups are going to say.

Their father has destroyed their lives beyond the grave, the least he could do is offer her a taste of fame.

While Ainsley relishes in the potential gain from being the first person to publicly discuss the death of The Surgeon, Malcolm lies stuck in the memory of that night, quietly reeling at the hands gripping his shoulders.

Even now, a year later, hearing the sound of his father’s dying breaths in his night terrors make his skin crawl and his stomach twist in nauseating knots, sometimes enough to pry him out of bed at two in the morning to throw up everything he ate hours before.

When the story of The Surgeon’s death broke, it quickly became national news, plastered all over page six and on every news stand in New York. Reporters were crowded outside of the Milton estate once again, clamoring Jessica for a comment on the death of her ex-husband.

Ainsley took a few days off of work, and the precinct wasn’t much of an escape. JT and Edrisa gave him their condolences, but they never said anything more than a few words on the issue.

While Gil was tending to Jessica and keeping her away from the liquor cabinet, he made sure to check in with Malcolm to make sure he had his head on straight, asking him every other day how he’s doing and reminding him that his door is always open.

His family rarely talked to one another for a few months.

Martin asked to be cremated when he died, so the least they could do was honor his wish. Jessica refused to hold onto his ashes, and Malcolm didn’t have to cite the reason why he shouldn’t keep them either. He has enough ghosts haunting him at night, he doesn’t need to add his father to the roster.

As much as she wants to fantasize about the numbers she’s going to receive, she remembers that she still has to wrap this up in a nice little bow and bring it home. “Describe for me what was going on in your head at that moment. What was running through your mind as you watched your father in that bed, just minutes before he died?”

Malcolm throws his head back in thought. The question is, what _wasn’t_ running through his mind when his father was dying?

He tries to search his memory for something tangible to grab onto but frowns when he comes up short, only pieces and fragments of what he could remember. If anything, he knows what he _wasn’t_ feeling.

“Distant. Lost. Indifferent.” In that moment, there were multitudes of emotions he couldn’t effectively place and a pile of ‘what if’s’ that he didn’t have answers to – the feeling of not knowing _what_ to feel, but experiencing every emotion at the same time. “I don’t know how to put it into words,” he answers truthfully.

From his years of training and his expansive knowledge of human psychology, Malcolm knows what the appropriate reaction to losing a parent should be, the general responses that grief can curate – deep depression, loss of appetite, fatigue, anxiety.

Surprisingly, he felt none of these. He’s had these symptoms ever since the night his father was arrested, so he didn’t feel any different than what he’s used to.

“As horrible, vile, and immoral as my father was, his death hit me pretty hard. I describe the loss in the book as catastrophic and earth-shattering. Even with all of the conflicting emotions I felt at the time, I couldn’t ignore the massive black hole that was constantly eating away at me. There was this grave emptiness that came with losing my father,” he says, but pauses, debating his next choice of words.

Soon, he’ll be saying this in front of millions and not just his studio audience.

Gathering his thoughts in a way that makes the most sense, Malcolm takes a deep breath, holds for four seconds, and then exhales through his nose.

He regrets what he’s about to say.

As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he knows that he’ll never be able to move on if he refuses to acknowledge that lingering emptiness.

“When I was young, I naively thought that one day, when my father died, I would finally be free from him. Free of the abuse, the hallucinations, the guilt, the resentment; I thought it would feel like a weight was lifted off of my shoulders. When in reality...” he trails off and closes his eyes, feeling his hand tremble in his lap. “A part of me died with him that day.”

When the words leave his lips, his head falls to his chest.

She looks to her brother with sympathy in her eyes as his words resonate with her. She lost her father that day, too, even if she was only able to spend so many years with him before he passed.

They haven’t gotten the chance to share their grief, but if it starts under studio lights and heavy makeup, then so be it. It’s also one hell of a soundbite.

Malcolm raises his head and continues. “It took me a long time to come to terms with it. As much as I despise my father for what he did to me, I can’t ignore the fact that at one point in time, he was my _father_ who I loved and cherished and was excited to see every day. I lost him that day, as well. I started writing the book once he got sick just to have something to look back on and remember, but there was so much to process and I struggled to put my feelings into words.”

Just thinking about the day itself makes his heart feel heavy. He’s not even sure if he’ll _ever_ move on from his father.

“There’s a couple of things that I omitted from the record as well.”

She raises her eyebrows. “What do you mean by that?”

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and shakily exhales. “There is a chapter floating around the editor’s room that never got published.”

Ainsley’s ears practically perk up at the revelation, sitting up straighter in her chair with a slight frown. “How come it was never published? What did you talk about?”

“After the death of my father, I thought I was doing pretty okay. I had a couple of rough nights but nothing out of the ordinary or nothing I wasn’t already used to. For three months, I was handling it a lot better than people expected me to. I carried on with work like I normally do, I could talk about what happened, and I slept no differently than I usually did.”

“And you didn’t find _that_ to be out of the ordinary?” she asks, slightly animated. “I understand that everyone grieves in different ways and at their own pace, but this was a unique situation.”

 _Well, that’s one way to put it_ , he thinks.

“I _did_ find it a bit odd at the time, but I rationalized that this was a normal response when in reality, my brain was struggling to process this new piece of trauma.”

It was his therapist that shed some light on this in-transit feeling he was having. The fact that his brain wasn’t processing his father’s death like it should’ve was alarming and a major point of concern not just for the therapist, but for Malcolm as well.

During one of his sessions, he was told that at some point, the shock will wear off, and he will be able to grieve his father whenever he felt like

“You said for three months, everything seemed fine,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “What changed?”

This is another moment he remembers very vividly. Not because it happened nearly eight months ago in his own home, but because of the severity of his reaction while his family watched, and what eventually took place just an hour afterwards.

Most of it is a blur. He remembers the white-hot pain burning through his skull, he barely registers Dani’s soothing voice, and he remembers Jack being in the room when it happened (only because he was told a couple of days later).

“I had a nervous breakdown.”

* * *

Everything happens so quickly that no one has time to react. Not a second later, blood stains their million dollar table and silverware set. Dinner is ruined. His hand is split open – whether it’s an accident or on purpose, no one knows – and his tailored shirt is stained red.

A guttural, blood-curdling scream rips from a place so deep within that it terrifies his family, keeping them from moving in their seats, too stunned at what’s happening right in front of them.

Dani is petrified, frozen in fear, and Jack watches his father fall to the ground in complete shock.

When he’s feeling _really_ overwhelmed, he usually gives Dani a warning before all hell breaks loose and he’s too out of touch to safely ground himself. Now, without warning, he’s kneeling on the floor with tears pouring out of his eyes, and _screaming_ as if he’s being ruthlessly tortured over and over.

His body goes into shock and he falls to his knees clutching his hand, eyes wide open then squeezed tight, reliving a flashback too powerful, too painful to put into words and it’s too much, it’s all too much and he’s stuck, he can’t _move_ –

Dani gets up from her chair so quickly that it falls when she runs over to him, adrenaline finally kicking in at the sight of distress, her mind working overtime to try and get his attention before he hurts himself even more or worse, her.

She settles in front of him on her knees like they do in their routine with her hands on her thighs, ready to redirect him but this isn’t routine. This time, she’s deathly afraid of him and what he might do.

“Sweetie, look at me,” she calmly says, voice loud enough to rival his screaming. “Just breathe with me, okay? You’re safe here, you’re safe. Can you look at me, Malcolm?”

Her words fall on deaf ears.

His screaming breaks off into high-pitched sobs and mumbles of ‘stop’ and no’, each word sounding more distraught than the last. The tears won’t stop and the memories keep slamming him on a constant loop, replaying the worst day of his life over and over again.

If the neighbors were listening, they’d probably think someone’s being murdered.

“Come on, sweetie, I need you to breathe, okay? Control your breathing – it’s okay, you’re okay.”

He’s trying, he’s so desperately trying to breathe but it only comes out as choked sobs and painful wheezing.

“That’s good, you’re doing great. Just keep doing that, okay?”

When he sucks in a breath too fast, he chokes and coughs roughly through the tears, throat burning alongside the endless throbbing in his head. His body feels like its on fire, and his eyes shut tight, wailing in complete misery.

She feels like she’s losing him.

“Mom?”

Dani whips her head around to find their son standing just a few feet away from them. _Way_ too close for Dani’s liking.

It was unavoidable, but Jack is no stranger to this. He has heard his father scream in the dead of night when he’s awake studying, witnessed his father succumb to anxiety attacks for years, understands how to communicate on his bad days; he’s memorized a list of triggering topics to avoid whenever they talk.

He’s no stranger to his father’s extensive trauma, but tonight is something he’s never seen before, and he’s not sure of what to do.

She knows it’s too late, but she doesn’t want him to see his father like this. Dani has done her best to keep Jack from seeing Malcolm at his worst – and he’s made _great_ progress lately – but there’s no signal for this, and she knows her son is too bright to be protected from everything.

“Mom,” he hesitantly calls, watching his father in horror. “Is dad okay?”

His continuous cries don’t let up. “Jack, go to your room.”

“Should I call Grandpa? Maybe he can help?”

“Go to your room!” she snaps, “Don’t make me say it again!”

He flinches at that, and Dani immediately curses herself for being so harsh when he’s just trying to help. Jack doesn’t stay a second longer; not wanting to make things worse, he nearly runs out of the dining room and disappears down the hall.

She turns her attention back to her husband, who’s falling forward into her space head first, landing on her shoulder as his throat shreds and his head violently throbs against his skull.

He’s trembling like a leaf under her, bloodied hands still in his lap but he’s desperate to not be alone.

He can feel his mind slipping back to the here and now, but as soon as he can get ahold of his senses, he’s plunged back into his father’s hands and his body lights up in unbearable pain.

“Make it stop,” he moans, lips curling into a frown as he’s overcome with emotion again. A fresh wave of tears wrack his body and she pulls him in closer, taking her hands to gently rub his back and through his hair. He sounds so _miserable_. “Please make it _stop_...”

His broken voice moves something in her, weighing heavy on her heart, and tears well up in her eyes as she stares down at the tortured man in front of her begging to make the pain go away.

If she had the means, she would stop his suffering in a heartbeat. She’ll never be able to take his pain away no matter how hard she tries, so she’s forced to settle and be his home to come back and she hopes that it’s enough to bring him back to the surface.

“I wish I could, Malcolm. I’m sorry that I can’t,” she whispers, feeling herself close to crying. “Believe me, I wish I could.”

Through the rest of the night, she spends what feels like hours calming him down. It abruptly fails a couple of times when a handful of flashbacks swarm and take over, pulling him back into the depths of his mind and subjecting him to another bout of paralyzing terror.

When the pain begins to subside and Malcolm’s too exhausted to fight anymore, Dani gently lifts him up off the ground so he can stand, and waits for the ok for her to move. It comes in a quiet whimper, and she starts out of the dining room one gentle step at a time.

They end up on the floor of their master bath. Malcolm leans against the cool surface of their tub while Dani sits between his legs with the first aid kit open and an array of bandages sprawled everywhere.

She’s taking her time cleaning the blood off of his hand, cautious of the fresh gash on his palm as she works her way around it, careful not to startle him.

He’s dissociative, completely gone from the present, his eyes fixed on the wall behind her with nothing grabbing his attention. Even the ointment on his hand didn’t garner a reaction, nor the pressure from her hand towel or gauze.

“Malcolm?” she calls, putting the gauze down and placing his hand in his lap. “Can you look at me?”

She brings her hands up to his face as she searches his eyes for any recognition of her words, but when nothing comes, she drops her hand on his and rests the other one on the back of his neck.

Dani feels like she has no choice but to make a few phone calls.

She steps out into the bedroom far enough to be out of earshot but close enough to keep an eye on Malcolm through the crack in the door. When she finally hangs up, Dani moves quickly to start packing.

Not even thirty minutes later, there’s a knock on their door, and Dani yells from the bedroom for Jack to get it, afraid to take her eyes off of Malcolm for even a second.

“Mom? Grandpa and Grandma are here.”

From their bedroom, she can hear Jessica’s voice ring throughout the house as she makes conversation with Jack even though he just wants to know why they’re here.

Zipping up the duffle bag she’s filling on the bed, Gil appears behind Dani with a broken expression, frowning but the fear on his face could be seen from miles away. With one look, Dani nods towards the bathroom where Malcolm’s still sitting against the tub with his bandaged hand in his lap.

Slowly, Gil leans on his cane as he approaches Malcolm.

“Come on, kid,” Gil says softly. “I’m too old for this. My knees don’t work like they used to, you know.” He forces a laugh, noting no movement from Malcolm and his heart breaks a little bit more.

“Kid?” With his cane, Gil cautiously bends forward as much as he can, wincing at the pain flaring up in his knee but pushes himself to try and meet him halfway. “Malcolm?”

It’s too painful to watch.

Dani promptly exits the room to meet Jack and Jessica in the front room, curls bouncing as she walks on her heels.

Jack is the first to notice his mother when she walks in, and as soon as Jessica sees her, she breaks off their conversation and marches toward Dani.

“How bad is it?” she asks through knitted brows.

Still a bit shaken up, Dani just shakes her head with a sigh, sticking her hands in her pockets to keep herself from fidgeting, not wanting to give herself away.

Jessica takes a few steps towards Dani and rests her hand on her arm, ducking her head a bit to meet her eyes, finding that they’re both staring at each other with tears threatening to fall. For the brief second that their eyes meet, Dani quickly turns her head to the side, hiding her face as much as she can.

They say nothing to each other, but they know they don’t have to.

“Can someone tell me what’s going on?” Jack asks, raising his voice loud enough to talk over them.

His lips purse in a tight line as he looks between Jessica and Dani for answers, frustrated that he’s the only one that doesn’t know what’s happening to his dad like its some big secret that only adults can know about. He’s old enough to know, and he has the right to know.

Dani and Jessica both look at each other, quietly debating if they should tell him or not. It doesn’t take much for Dani to cave.

“Can you go help Gil with Malcolm, please?” she asks, looking in the direction of their room. Jessica takes the hint, and leaves without debate. Once she’s gone, Dani quickly wipes her eyes with her palms, then turns to Jack.

Her expression is muted, melancholic in a way that makes him regret ever asking.

Jack didn't question it when his mother told him that his father was going away for a few days. He had a nagging, horrid suspicion of what might be happening, so when she confirmed it, he realized that his father is in worse shape than he originally thought.

He doesn’t question it when his mother tells him to go back to his room, and he doesn’t question it when she tells him that she’ll come get him when she’s ready.

When she finally did, his father was gone, but she didn’t need to explain to him where he went.

When his mother moves from standing in the door to sitting on his bed, Jack gets out from under the covers and sits right next to her in silence. They don’t talk about it because there’s nothing left to do except wait. Wait for a phone call from Gil or Jessica and one in the morning.

Until then, Jack just sits there with his mom, aware that she doesn’t want to talk, but aware that she probably feels just as helpless and alone as he does.

He gives her some space. Tonight, they only have each other, and he can’t afford to lose her, too.

* * *

“Truthfully, my editor thought it would be best if I kept it to myself. I think the book has enough juicy details to pick through.”

Refusing to take no for an answer, Ainsley presses on. “Do you feel comfortable sharing with us what happened in that unpublished chapter? Maybe you could elaborate more on your state of mind, what might’ve prompted the breakdown?”

Even though he’s shared some personal, intimate details with Ainsley throughout this entire interview, he can’t stomach the idea of talking about another one of his weakest moments in national television.

The press is going to have a field day talking about his suicide attempt, and he does _not_ want to add to that.

“I think some things are better left unsaid.” He gives her one of his signature fake smiles and leaves it at that.

For a moment, they sit in silence.

Ainsley can tell just by the way he’s holding himself that he’s not going to give it up no matter how hard she pushes, especially since she already knows what happened that night.

She remembers getting a text from her mother late in the night right before she left the studio. The message was brief and she knows that her mother is prone to exaggeration, but she opened her phone to find four words that she never gets to hear unless something is seriously wrong.

_EMERGENCY. CALL ME. PLEASE._

For her mother to be up so late must’ve meant it was important, so she quickly called her back, and once she heard about what happened to her brother, she was speeding through Manhattan to get to the hospital to see him.

By the time she got there, they had already taken Malcolm in and a doctor was going through the paperwork with Gil while trying to answer every single question Jessica had for him.

Jessica just about cried when she saw Ainsley walk through the sliding doors, and immediately hopped up from her seat to run and pull her daughter into a crushing hug.

They held each other in a tight embrace, too afraid to let go and face the reality of what might become of Malcolm.

Ainsley risks taking a glance at Gil talking with the doctor and her heart just breaks at the pain she could see behind his eyes, and the stifling regret of having to do this.

All three of them stand together, torn, while two wait at home for the call that decides what’s going to happen to him.

They’ve seen Malcolm power through the worst of it all, he came back with more scars than wounds, fractured and broken in ways he’ll never be able to recover from while he still shows up to work with the biggest smile on his face.

Judging by the looks of Gil and her mother, Ainsley can only imagine what kind of ruin they found him in.

In that moment, she distantly wonders if this was it.

She knows the aftermath of what happened, and if he doesn’t want to discuss it in front of the cameras, then she’ll respect his decision. Besides, the content he’s already given her is more than she was expecting to get when she originally set this up.

Now that he’s made it through the troughs Ainsley’s set up for him, Malcolm feels like he can finally breathe a little better.

The end is just over the hill on the horizon, and he’s _so_ ready to be done with this interview for good.

Ainsley pauses for a brief moment to order her questions in her head, picking out which ones she wants to start with and which note she wants to end on that’s most effective. She takes the premise of his book and arranges her questions accordingly, and flashes a smile when she has them.

She switches her legs and puts one knee over the other, and relaxes against her chair with her eyes set on Malcolm and a neutral expression, drawing out the silence for dramatic effect.

“So, it’s been over forty years since The Surgeon was arrested for his murders and almost a year since his death. After everything you’ve been put through from such a young age up until now, what exactly motivated you to write the book? Why tell your story now?”

 _A textbook question_ , he thinks. Simple, but effective with the right story.

“I’m usually private about what I’ve been through and how I cope with it, but I never knew of the freedom I would feel putting my thoughts on paper.”

His hands come back up to rest on his lap once they’ve stopped shaking, and his thoughts are more clearer now that he’s close to the end.

“When I started to realize that my father didn’t have much time left, I began to write down everything that I had been holding onto for decades. Even though my family strongly advised against it, I felt like I was comfortable enough to tell my story with a level of confidence I didn’t have, say, twenty years ago.”

Satisfied with her answer, Ainsley moves on to her next question. “Have you forgiven your father, Malcolm? Is he worth your forgiveness?”

“I have. I forgave my father. I know that in order for me to move forward in my life, I have to confront my feelings in an open and honest way, and I didn’t want to be stuck in the same exhausting cycle for the rest of my life. I had to let go of my resentment and embrace my anger.”

“Do you think he ever loved you?”

“Psychopaths aren’t capable of love,” he explains as his hands come up. “His profound narcissism won’t allow him to see his actions as emotional manipulation or mental and physical abuse – it’s a game to him, and it took me _decades_ to recover from it. Things would be much different if he could.”

“Do _you_ love _him_?”

He pauses at that. It’s a hot topic in his sessions as of late, but he declines to answer it because he feels as if it’s a loaded statement without a clear and concise response. Malcolm takes a second to choose his words carefully, trying to find a way to word this correctly without giving the wrong impression.

“If I say yes, then it’s not exactly ‘love’ that brings me back to him. If I say no, then those first ten years before I knew what he was would be a lie.”

He takes a second to think about it. Love is a pretty strong word that he doesn’t take lightly, and applying it to his father garners an instinctual negative reaction. “What binds us together is not what you would call love.”

Ainsley nods her head and hums, and decides to leave it at that. “Do you think the story will ever end for you?”

He frowns as he thinks it through. “I don’t know if it will. The media clamored my family when the book was released, and once this interview goes live, I know the media will be back with even more questions and a stronger drive to get soundbites, pictures of me and my family, words to take out of context; I’ve laid myself bare, and they’re still going to want more from me.”

Being in his mother’s social circle doesn’t always have its perks, and being associated with one of the most notorious modern-day serial killers cements his negative press image.

Unlike his mother, he’s not too concerned with appearance anymore; as long as his family is kept out of the headlines, and shitty magazines don’t run stories about his ability, or lack thereof, to be a good parent surface, he could care less about the horrible candids.

“In many ways, I have healed certain aspects of my life, and I’ve made peace with what has happened to me, but if I’m being honest, I don’t think it’s going to get better. I don’t think that the story will ever be over for me because it _can’t_. The damage has already been done, and I can’t undo what my father has done to me.”

Ainsley hums and nods again. Another excellent soundbite that she bookmarks in her head, so she responds in mock sympathy. “There’s one thing that I’ve been meaning to ask you ever since we started, but I decided to save it for the end.”

When he hears this, he tries to keep his expression neutral as his heart spikes, trying to think of the million things she could ask him. He ponders what could possibly be left after the hard-hitting questions she’s already asked him.

She stares off to the side as if she’s debating her choice of words and whether or not she should ask this anyway. That, or she’s taking a dramatic pause.

“Are you your father’s son?” she asks, looking him straight in the eye with no room to avoid her. “Do you consider you and your father to be ‘the same’?”

To her question, he slowly nods his head as it processes. It’s the age-old question that started this all.

He remembers it like it was yesterday; ten years old, floating in a sea of cops with his father kneeling before him, scrambling to say some final words before he’s taken away.

A boy sends his father away, and he’s rewarded with three haunting words that will ruin him in ways he can’t even comprehend.

Staring down at the floor with his fingers intertwined on his lap, Malcolm chooses his words wisely. His heart settles in his chest as he continues to shed his anxiety around the question, and he gathers himself to present an answer to the world.

“One way or another, the sins of my father will always be attached to me, and I can’t change that. I’ve made my peace with it, and I have grown stronger because of him. I’m older now with things that I want to do and experiences that I want to have. I don’t want to waste the rest of my life thinking about him every chance that I get.”

It brings a warm smile to Ainsley’s face, proud and in awe of how far her brother has come.

“I may be my father’s son, but I know that I am much more than that.”

In the quietness of the studio, the atmosphere levels out, and from behind the camera, Malcolm hears the stage manager yell, “Cut!”

Then the overhead lights shut off, the boom mics are lifted and moved out of their way, and everyone in the studio visibly relaxes.

Almost in sync, Ainsley and Malcolm practically slump in their chairs, sighing like they’ve been holding their breath this entire time, and smile at each other as they bask in the mutual feeling.

Something new stirs within Malcolm, a jittery calmness that he can’t quite describe, but the rush it gives him is slightly exhilarating.

It’s over.

In the back of his mind, he knows that there’s press to get through, spam emails to delete, and greedy reporters standing outside of the estate to get a comment, but he can’t worry about that now. It’s finally _over_.

The day he’s been dreading for months now is no longer a thought in his mind and a thing of the past. He got over the hump, and it feels so damn good to finally breathe again.

Two crew members come around their chairs to peel the mics off of their collars. Malcolm leans back in his chair when they’re done and quietly waits for Ainsley to finish talking with the crew member.

Everyone in the studio scatters like flies to their jobs, talking among themselves about whatever, decluttering while they mingle like a well-oiled machine. It’s an atmosphere of people working together towards a common goal to bring their own attributes to the table, and the thought makes him miss his team at the precinct.

“Malcolm?” she calls, and he looks up from the floor with raised eyebrows. “Are you okay?”

He quickly nods with a reassuring smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking, that’s all.”

Ainsley narrows her eyes, not really buying it. “I said, are you _okay_?”

It takes him a moment to figure what she means by that, then it clicks, and he sits up in his chair to look her in the eyes. “I’m fine, Ains, really. I assure you that I am okay. Besides–” Malcolm stands up from his chair and stretches his arms in the air and exhales as his lower back pops. “–would you believe me anyways?”

She looks up at him from her chair with a coy smile. “No.”

Feeling his face ache and crust, he remembers he has makeup on and gel in his hair. “I need to get this off,” he says to himself.

He looks around for the two lovely people who did his hair and makeup just an hour ago, swaying and getting lost in the crowd of people walking back and forth. He’s about to move towards the mirror station he was at until a hand gently rests on his shoulder and stops him from moving.

He turns around to find Ainsley. “Yes?”

She faces him with her confidence gone, now struggling to say what she wants to say without making this more awkward than it already is.

“Something wrong?” he asks, voice laced with concern.

She immediately shakes her head. “No! Nothing’s wrong. Just...” Ainsley chews on her words.

Beneath her tough, professional exterior lies a soft vulnerability of being his sister. She’s confident everywhere else until her real emotions are involved, when it comes to Malcolm and their father, and after an hour of relentless back and forth about things he never talks to her about.

She knows that Malcolm will understand. Being as patient as he is, this is probably just overreacting with no real reason to be so hesitant.

“I just wanted to say...that I’m proud of you.”

He looks at her, confused, which sucks, because she’s dreading saying it again. Sometimes her brother isn’t all that bright.

“I _said_ ,” she emphasizes, “that I’m proud of you.” She keeps her eyes trained on him, sincerity in her expression. “I really am proud of you, Malcolm.”

It’s the best she can do without going into specifics, but the soft look on Malcolm’s face says that she doesn’t have to. He understands what she’s trying to say, and it makes her heart flutter knowing that he gets it.

“Thanks, Ains.”

Standing together in a sea of strangers, Malcolm and Ainsley find themselves closer than they’ve ever been before.

Their family has gone through so much together that words are no longer necessary, that stolen glances and silent responses speak loud enough to the anguish and grief seeping in the cracks of their foundations.

Malcolm loves his sister to pieces, and Ainsley can’t imagine where she would be without her brother.

At the end of the day, they know that they have each other, and there’s an overwhelming sense of comfort in knowing that they can always confide in each other no matter what.

When Ainsley walks away to her own room, Malcolm excuses himself to his room and turns the handle on his room, then promptly closes the door behind him. He’s finally alone.

Taking off his suit jacket and loosening his tie, Malcolm takes his time to make himself comfortable, then once he’s done, he pulls out his phone and shoots a quick text to Dani.

A cool breeze drifts across the back of his neck as he puts his phone away and picks at his sleeve to undo his cuffs. He doesn’t have to look up to see the shadow lurking in the corner of his eye.

“How did I do?” he asks out loud.

With his signature Cheshire grin, a flash of gray cardigan and white scrubs emerge from the corner next to the bright vanity, and steps over to check his reflection in the mirror.

“I think you did great!” Martin chimes, glancing over his side profile in the mirror. “Of course, your sister was perfect, so there’s no surprise there. I think the interview went great! Really showed the world what a _wonderful_ father I’ve been.”

Malcolm just rolls his eyes.

Then Martin clears the countertop and sits on top of the vanity, swinging his legs as he rocks on his palms. “Personally, I think you could’ve eased up on some of the earlier parts. You’ve got to let go of some of that stuff, Malcolm. It’s not healthy for your psyche.”

“I’m talking to you – do I really have that much to lose?”

Martin rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the mirror. “Always so _dramatic_. I feel like that’s something you picked up from your mother...or you came by it naturally. How _is_ your mother, by the way?”

Malcolm is so caught up in his father that he nearly jumps at the knock on his door. “Mr. Bright?” someone calls from outside.

He immediately shoots a look towards his father and shoos him away with his hands, but Martin keeps smiling and doesn’t budge from his spot by the vanity. “Yes?” Malcolm answers, “Come in.”

The door swings open and one of the set members lingers in the doorway. Malcolm arches up his eyebrows, waiting. “We’re waiting for you but the mirrors,” he says, and Malcolm gives him a curt nod.

“Right. I’ll be there in just a second.”

The crew member nods and shuts the door behind him. He glares daggers at his father from across the room who finds his hurried squirming very amusing.

“I wonder what he would’ve thought if he heard you talking to yourself,” Martin hums, grinning. “What would be a good headline for the tabloids? Sure, it’s grasping at straws, but who said entertainment has to be truthful?”

Malcolm ignores him as he sends another text to Dani, letting her know that he’ll be heading home soon. It’s fruitless to entertain him, so Malcolm heads for the door without looking back, and the grating voice of his father behind him.

“Tell your sister she did an excellent job for me!”

In Ainsley’s room, she’s taking her time carefully removing her makeup in the mirror while her phone steadily chimes with notifications.

While she scrubs her face with a cloth, she takes inventory of herself and goes over the entire interview in her head to figure out how she’s feeling about it.

If she’s being honest, she’s pretty satisfied with her performance. The rush of adrenaline is slowly beginning to fade as she comes down from her high, but overall, the giddiness left in her body is enough proof for her to stop overthinking it.

Telling her brother’s story – _their_ story – brings a certain level of peace in her that she hasn’t felt in a long time; or, ever.

This is it, she thinks. It’s finally over.

Once her makeup is off and she’s thrown away the wipes in the trash, she stares at her reflection, focused on nothing but what she sees.

A woman, much older than when she reconnected with her father, still as radiant, youthful and sharp as she once was, ambitious, but mature.

She stands in the middle of the room quietly thinking of her father, reminiscing on the few good conversations they’ve had right before he passed.

She clutches the crystal necklace in her hands, then gently presses a kiss on the top of the band. “I hope I’ve made you proud,” she whispers, closing her eyes. Somewhere, out there, she hopes that he’s listening and smiling down on her with the biggest grin.

This is one of the biggest interviews she’s done in all of her career and the first one without her father’s watchful eyes. She did something good for her brother, and if it helps him heal in any way, then that in itself is a huge accomplishment in her eyes.

Ainsley goes through a few top aids and a couple of her producer’s before she takes her leave from the studio. It’s only a few minutes until noon and she’s slated to be back in a couple of hours for her timeslot, so she decides to take a breather until then.

The cab drops her off by Central Park where the trees blow in the wind and the grass is occupied with picnic blankets and food as rich as the connections sitting across from one another.

She finds an empty park bench under a giant tree to sit on, dropping her bag right next to her and holding it under her arm. The breeze rolls in just right and the sun shines through the trees, creating a speckled pattern on her outfit. She could sit here all day if she could.

With the beauty surrounding her and the pride crowding her heart, Ainsley leans back against the bench and closes her eyes to soak in this moment of solitude and pure bliss.

Where she stands, everything is right with the world.

As soon as Malcolm leaves the studio, he heads straight home.

Dani will be at work for the rest of the day and Jack won’t be home for another couple of hours, so Malcolm spends the entire cab ride thinking of things to do when he gets home.

He can clean the house before his wife gets home, take a long hot shower, or flip through the channels before he settles on crappy daytime TV with his favorite licorice and sparkling water.

He’s still flipping through his options by the time he gets home. He thanks the driver for the ride and gives him a generous tip, then closes the car door behind him and pulls out his keys.

The second he walks through his front door, he’s greeted by an empty home with no lights on and the sudden urge to take a _really_ long nap.

All of his options go out the window as he stumbles towards his room, body aching in ways that it didn’t when he woke up this morning.

He quickly toes off his shoes, takes off his suit jacket and unbuttons the first few buttons on his shirt, and collapses on the bed with his phone and keys sprawled out beside him.

There’s nothing left for him to do now. Maybe he’ll stare at the ceiling until he’s tired enough to fall asleep, or take a quick shower and check up on Gil and see how he’s doing.

Exhaustion tugging at him, his eyes slowly slide shut and he curls up against his pillow, not bothering to put his restraints on when he’s too tired to even notice the shadows on the wall.

He quickly checks the time on his phone before putting it back down and allows himself to fall asleep without interruption.

At some point, Malcolm is startled awake not by the ghost of his father, but by the sound of something dropping by the front door.

It’s not enough to pry him from the softness of his sheets, so he rolls his head back over the pillow with a sigh, brushing it off as his own active imagination.

He picks up his phone when it lights up with a notification from work, an email he can get back to later, and glances over at the time and frowns.

It’s only been an hour.

He drops his phone on the bed with a groan, rubbing his face at the impending headache sitting at the base of his skull, and curls up in a fetal position so he can go back to sleep. One hour of uninterrupted sleep is very rare to come by, and he wants to capitalize on it while he’s still groggy and unfocused.

He lays in between consciousness for a while until the gentle touch of a hand rests on his thigh followed by the familiar scent of citrus filling the room.

He stirs in the bed but doesn’t move, then the bed dips by his feet and his eyes crack open to find who’s sitting next to him.

Unsurprisingly, it’s Dani, smiling at him while she watches his exhausted figure laid out on the bed. The sight of her makes him smile, too, and he falls back into the pillows grinning.

Then he frowns. “Why are you home so early?” he asks, stifling a yawn.

Dani opens her mouth to answer but she’s interrupted by the sound of a backpack falling and zippers coming undone, loud enough to draw Malcolm’s full attention so that he’s sitting up on the bed. “Jack’s home?” He reaches for his phone to check the time again. “Did something happen at school?”

“Nope,” she says, shrugging. “Just thought I’d surprise you.”

Her warm smile pulls her closer to Malcolm, and she stretches out over his frame to lean in and give him a quick peck on the cheek. He’s so relieved to see her that he can’t stop grinning, then turns his head so his lips hover under hers as he quietly asks for an invitation.

She accepts with a smile, and takes him in a slow and sweet kiss.

They allow themselves to move into a more comfortable position without breaking the kiss, Dani hovering over Malcolm and her hands down by his sides while he lays under her, caught up in each other that nothing else in the world exists.

Dani is the first to break the kiss, but she doesn’t pull away just yet. She slowly leans forward and plants a gentle kiss to his forehead, then pulls away to watch her husband smile at her the same way he did when they were much younger.

“Oh my gosh, get a _room_!”

The kiss quickly turns into them laughing against each other until they pull away, snickering at being caught by their son.

Dani sits back on her heels while Malcolm contorts his body to face the doorway without having to sit up and leave the comfort of his pillows. “Actually, this _is_ our room, and you’re trespassing,” Dani says, smirking.

Jack walks over to the bed rolling his eyes. “I just wanted to say hi to dad, not watch you two make out.” He plops down at the edge of the bed next to Malcolm’s legs, and Malcolm stares up at Jack’s face.

“Your hair’s getting long,” he states. Then he props himself up on his elbows to get a better look. “It looks good. Take it out of your ponytail for a sec?”

Jack grumbles as he reaches up to take his hair down. He doesn’t get a chance to take it down because Malcolm shoots up off the bed and wraps his arms around Jack’s chest, tackling him down just in time for Dani to quickly move out of their way.

Jack and Malcolm collapse on the bed laughing, tangled in each other as Jack fights to pull away and Malcolm is determined to hold onto him.

He wrestles some more until Jack eventually stops pushing back on his arms and surrenders.

“I give up!” he yells, wheezing through his laughs.

Malcolm rolls on his back and lulls his head to the side as his chest heaves, trying to catch his breath. “That’s what you get for being cheeky,” he huffs, resting his hands on his chest.

“You started it,” Jack retorts.

“And I finished it!” Malcolm scoffs, lightly tapping him on the chest.

Watching her boys mess around brings a huge smile to her face and it warms her heart to see Malcolm so sensitive and loving.

When it seems like they’re done squabbling with each other, Dani lifts off her heels and scoots down so she’s laying on her back right next to Malcolm.

“Don’t mind if I do,” she says, turning on her side to snuggle closer in his side.

Instinctively, Malcolm lays out his arm and snakes it under her head so she can be comfortable while she’s close to him, only inches away from his face, and a smile creeps up when their eyes meet again.

“You better not make out again...” Jack grumbles, scooting closer to his father.

Dani chuckles. “What if we do? Would that be a problem, officer?”

“I swear, I’ll leave,” he warns, even though he’s only half-joking.

Malcolm lays out his other arms for Jack to lay his head on, and he takes the invitation, snuggling his head in the crook between his father’s arm and chest, secure in his embrace.

Time passes, but no one’s complaining.

Together, they lay across the soft, plush sheets together, quiet as no one dares to ruin the moment.

On one side is his beautiful wife who has had her fair share of bad nights and horrible experiences with him. On the other side is his incredible son.

It’s a dream he thought would never come true for someone like him, a dream not fit for the unwell, too bound to the idea that they are incapable of loving when they don’t know the first thing about love.

Malcolm is proof of that. Proof that everyone deserves to love and to _be_ loved. Wrapped up in the arms of the two people who love him the most, he’s overcome with emotion and nowhere else for it to go but down his cheeks and onto the sheets.

For once, he’s crying tears of _joy_.

He’s undeniably _happy_ , and he wouldn’t have it any other way.


	9. Chapter 9

The frigid winter air in Manhattan bites. The city is overcast with grey skies, flurries of snow falling over and disappearing as soon as they reach the ground. Trees don’t move as the air’s perfectly still, and the beautiful hues of autumn in the leaves paint a gorgeous picture of the Hudson.

Even in the brutal temperatures, Malcolm and Ainsley continue to walk with each other by the river like they’ve done for years, numb fingers tucked away in coats while Malcolm walks closest to the fence, an unconscious effort to protect his sister.

The conversation is easy, mindless chatter about a horrible intern at the studio and Jack’s latest escapades at school.

He constantly dotes on his son whenever he gets the chance to, and it brings the biggest smile to his face every time he gets to talk about how proud he is to be his father. Ainsley loves to hear about her nephew whenever she can because she doesn’t visit often, but when she does, she makes sure to give him the biggest hug.

“How is he?” Ainsley asks, dancing around what they need to talk about. “You know, after the interview and everything.”

She doesn’t chance looking at him. Instead, she turns her attention to the black urn resting in the palms of her leather gloves.

Malcolm simply shrugs. “He’s doing okay,” he says unconvincingly. “There’s been a couple of comments at school, but nothing too crazy. For the most part, people just make the connection and move on.”

It’s been nearly two months since Ainsley and Malcolm sat down with each other in a studio to discuss his book in front of the cameras, and two weeks since the actual interview aired on national television.

He was told to stay away from the precinct for a couple of days by their Lieutenant due to the added publicity of it all and was essentially given a mini vacation for the two days he was gone. Of course, Dani snuck the case file for him so he had a tangible distraction.

The estate was swarmed with paparazzi like they expected. A couple of days before the interview went live, Jessica was given the heads up, and made sure that Gil was right next to her when the hounds came out to get a picture.

When Jack came home from school one night, Malcolm sat him down at the table and talked about what might happen at school, or god forbid, if he’s spotted in the streets by some nosy reporter.

They don’t live in the public eye like he used to when he was younger, but every now and then, when they’re attending an event with his mother, he’ll be spotted with Dani and get harassed with questions about his father.

They usually don’t mean any harm when curiosity strikes, but the questions typically are invasive, and it kind of puts a damper on the mood.

Ainsley relishes in the constant attention, but when assumptions about her family gain heavy traction in the media, she finds herself fuming and continuously making public statements debunking some of the harmful words being spread about Malcolm.

The media will do what it has to do to generate clocks, and she understands that.

What she’s not going to stand for is the taunting, invalidation, and tearing down of Malcolm’s character.

It’s only a loud minority, but it still hurts all the same.

“I knew what I was getting into when I wrote the book. I just wish I could take some of that pressure off of him.” They continue to walk down the concrete path on the trail, silently mulling over their words in their heads.

The urn suddenly feels heavy in her hands. “Yeah.”

Malcolm glances over at his sister’s face as she stares at the ground while she walks. He can’t imagine the kind of heat she’s getting - they’ve never experienced something like this before. Now that it’s all been said and done, they don’t know what to do with themselves.

They’ll never admit it out loud, but hiding in the deepest and darkest crevice in their hearts, a lingering fear resides under an uncomfortable insecurity they’ve acquired. The fear of discovering that they are nothing without their father.

Their whole lives were spent on a single focus, a nagging truth placed on the backburner until they were old enough to get close to the flames but not disciplined enough to protect themselves from being burned.

A chapter of their lives is coming to a close, and they’re not sure how they should move on from it.

His heart breaks for her.

Without a doubt, their father’s death hit her the hardest. She grew up without a father her entire life, so the moment she met him, she couldn’t help but latch onto him, despite everyone else’s warning to stay away from.

They only spent so much time together in the past twenty years that the loss felt like something was taken from her, and she couldn’t allow herself to grieve a man she hardly knew.

Ainsley cradles the urn closer to her chest, lightly grazing her crystal necklace as it sways against her chest with her footsteps. The crunch of the leaves under her boots provide a small distraction from the heaviness swarming her heart.

Holding her father’s life in her hands isn’t exactly appealing.

They cross another path before making a turn past a giant tree and a park bench. In the distance is a long bridge hovering over the Hudson, suspended by grey metal bars and a path coated in faded red brick. It’s too cold and too slippery for bikers to ride the trail, but a few hikers can be spotted crossing the bridge on the other end.

As they near their destination, Malcolm’s nerves start to rattle underneath his skin. Or, perhaps, it’s the chill that runs down his spine and not the increasing anticipation of following through with his father’s death wish.

Ainsley must feel it too, because she’s not attempting to spark a conversation about nothing. Instead, they walk in silence like they’re being sentenced.

He finds the silence unhelpful. “Ainsley,” he murmurs, chin leaning on his scarf. He doesn’t have to look up to know he has her full attention. “We can talk about it.”

She practically stops walking. Malcolm halts and turns on his heels, meeting her soft expression with a frown. The weather isn’t helping much with their mood – the dreary skies cast a heavy gloom over their hearts that’s too complicated to work through at the moment.

“Do we have to?” she asks, eyes peering up to meet Malcolm’s, voice small and anxious. Suddenly, she’s young again, and his chest aches for even suggesting it in the first place.

Malcolm regretfully shakes his head. “No, but eventually, we have to,” he says. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

He smiles at her, but there’s no joy behind his eyes. Ainsley grasps onto the small piece of reassurance, and slowly starts to walk again.

The first step onto the bridge feels like an eternity. They’re finally here after walking a couple of miles in the freezing cold with nothing but their bond holding each other up the entire way here.

A slight breeze rolls through the air, blowing Ainsley’s hair in the wind and over her face, and Malcolm steps over to move it out of her face so she can keep holding the urn.

“Thank you,” she mumbles.

Malcolm tilts his head up, nodding, and turns back to start walking along the steel rails. Leaves litter the ground, held down by flurries dissipating into water while the trees rustle in the wind.

The view from the bridge is a scene taken straight out of a movie, a breathtaking sight on even the cloudiest days. Malcolm can see why his father loved this place so much.

It’s serene. A quiet trail to clear your mind when the world seems like it’s falling apart. Here, nature will always be a reminder that life will start again, and that nothing is ever set in stone. Perhaps, they both can start again; the cycle of life doesn't end in death.

They look down at the black urn in her hands with dazed resignation. Malcolm takes a step closer to the rail and peers over the Hudson, distantly wondering just how far the drop is, then looks back at Ainsley in silent agreement. Her eyes cast down to the urn sitting in her hands. It’s time.

Neither of them are prepared to say goodbye.

Maybe if they can get this over with, it won’t hurt as much when they’re sitting on their mothers couch completely shitfaced with no intentions of going home. They might actually take their mother up on that drink.

Her hand hovers over the pointed lid and her fingers rest on the tip, then her eyes flicker up towards Malcolm.

“Ready?” she asks, breath blowing in the frigid air.

Malcolm nods. “Ready.”

Off his cue, she lifts the top of the urn open and hands it off to him as he promptly steps out of her way. She takes a deep breath through her lips, then takes a couple of steps forward so she’s nearly leaning on the railing, her glove covering the opening.

Bracing herself, Ainsley takes another deep breath and slowly lifts her hand off of the top and positions herself to dump the urn with her father’s ashes.

Just as she’s about to tilt the urn over the rail, she stops and frowns. “Aren’t we supposed to do something?” she asks, tilting her head to the side. Malcolm stares at the rail as he tries to wrack his brain for an answer.

“Like what?”

She shrugs, “I don’t know. Isn’t there supposed to be a ceremony, or something? Aren't there laws to this? Don’t we have to say some parting words?”

“Um…” He takes a second to think about it. “I mean, we can if you want to.” Her hand rests on the top like it’s settled, and Malcolm stands there thinking of what on earth he should say. “Do you want to go first?”

She shrugs. “I guess I can.”

Malcolm nods at that and takes a small step back as if to allow her the floor, even though it’s just the two of them alone on a bridge.

Her crystal necklace weighs heavy against her chest while she tries to think of something meaningful to say, only falling short when she comes to realize she’s never taken a moment to properly grieve over her father.

She’s stuck in thought.

Ainsley takes a deep breath, then let’s it go when she feels like she’s ready.

“I know that this is a bit unconventional, but we’re the Whitly’s – nothing about our life is conventional,” she laughs, ducking her head. “I never knew what it was like to have a father growing up. You weren’t there for me, but you’ve never failed to make me feel like the luckiest girl in the room. For better or worse, I’m glad that I’ve gotten to know you as a person, the _real_ Martin Whitly.”

She starts to drift through the memories that they’ve shared over the years, all of the highs and lows, and the times they were at each other’s throats lamenting how much of a horrible father he’s been to both of them.

Then the second she’s covered in blood, he decides to give her his undivided attention. Not out of fear and concern, but out of egotism and greed. Over the years, she’s found it easier to forgive him considering that she doesn’t have the same emotional baggage that Malcolm carries.

Her ties to their father are different, murder being the thickest string.

“We’ve been through so much together in the time I’ve gotten to know you. I don’t want to end this on a sour note, but I’m not sure what else there is to say. I just hope that I’ve made you proud. That you’re proud of who your daughter is as well as the woman I’ve become today.”

She pulls the urn closer to her chest until it digs through her coat. “I don’t regret the time we spent together. I just wish that I didn’t waste it thinking that you were going to love me.”

Malcolm’s heart sinks at hearing that. Seeing his sister go through her own struggles with their father sparks a protective rage within him, desperate to keep him from destroying her, too. Some days, he’s too far away to reach out to her, and on others, he’s ready to be her shoulder to lean on when the visit doesn’t go well.

He would do anything for Ainsley if it meant she was safe.

Then it’s Malcolm’s turn, and he’s drawing blanks.

At first, it’s awkward. What could he possibly say to his father? He scrambles to find something to say that’s respectful and not an entire lie, but he quickly realizes that it’s impossible to talk about his dad without stating the obvious.

“I don’t have much to say,” he sighs, shoulders slacking. “I feel like I’ve said enough for one lifetime, I don’t think I should repeat it after yours. But I won’t let my words go unspoken anymore.”

Malcolm looks down at the urn that carries his trauma somberly. “I just wanted to say...thank you for raising me to be who I am today. I am stronger because of you, and I have learned to love and be happy in spite of you. In many ways, I am grateful for you. You’ve made me a better man, a better husband, and a better father than I ever thought was possible.”

He shakes his head as his chin meets his chest. “You’ve left your mark on me just like you planned, and left a lasting impression on the world under a moniker that people will remember. You've made our family stronger, and our home healthier than ever before, and I can’t thank you enough for not only pushing me, but mother and Ainsley as well to create a happier life for ourselves.”

He digs his hands deeper into his coat and twists the top of the urn through his fingers, huffing as a sharp breeze crests over his face and turns away from the urn to look out over the bridge. “The child in me still loves you, but he’s all grown up now.”

It’s something that he’s come to learn after spending years in therapy. In some twisted, miraculous way, Martin has been the catalyst for everything good to come into Malcolm’s life.

The fact doesn’t diminish his hard work that he’s been doing for decades, as well as practicing his daily affirmations along with routine meditation.

It took them years to realize that it’s okay not to love him. They don’t need his validation no matter how much they secretly crave it, and they don’t need to hang onto every word he says because they know it’s just a tactic in the long game.

It’s okay to say that you don’t love him because it’s harder to admit to yourself that he never loved you.

Once they’ve both said their goodbyes, they pause for a brief moment of collective silence, and allow their hearts to be encased in mourning.

Malcolm is the first to break the silence. “I think it’s time.”

Initially, Ainsley hesitates. She looks down at the urn in her palms and gives herself a second to mentally prepare for something she’s been dreading for almost a year now. The moment doesn’t last long.

She hesitantly nods. “Okay.”

Slowly removing her palm from the opening of the urn, Ainsley wraps her hand around the center to keep steady from slipping. Taking a step closer to the edge, she positions herself to fully face the outskirts of the vast river flowing beneath them, and waits for the wind to dissipate through the air.

 _This is really happening_.

Malcolm senses her nervousness. “Would you feel more comfortable if I did it?” he asks, even though he knows very well that being the one to tip his father’s ashes isn’t the best for his psyche at the moment.

She quickly shakes her head, huffing as she positions herself. “No, I can do this.”

He takes her word for it and backs away out of her space. It takes a while to psych herself up to do the honors, but she's peering over the railing in no time with Malcolm’s watchful eye making sure that she’s okay enough to do this.

Ainsley sets her hands with a tight grip, then looks over her shoulder. “You ready?”

“Yeah. I’m ready.”

Using the steady railing to lean over the river, Ainsley grabs hold of the base, tips the bottom under her palm, and pours.

Malcolm watches the trail of ashes fall through the air, down to the water over the cliff as he shuts down his emotions to be present with the view. To see his father – rather, what’s physically left of him – disappear into the water in the midst of a gorgeous haven that nature has provided for them.

Oddly enough, it doesn’t feel right to see him go.

It’s surreal to watch your trauma go up in flames to be reduced into a pile that’s big enough for a jar his mother spent too much money on. Surreal is the best way he can put it because he’s entirely too exhausted to deal with the mountain of emotions swirling through his body.

Ainsley comes back up from the railing when the urn is finally empty. Their father is no more, gone from this world and leaves behind a trail of misery and suffocating heartache too profound for so many families to simply let go of.

It’s done. He’s finally gone.

Ainsley meets Malcolm’s eyes with tears in her own, suddenly overcome with a slew of emotions she doesn’t allow herself to feel. This hurts more than she can say. She doesn’t allow herself to feel weak, but she crumbles with every passing second, and there’s nothing she can do to stop the tears falling down her face.

Malcolm takes his hand out of his pocket and wraps his arm around her shoulders and cradles her head under his chin while she cries.

He gently urges her forward as she sniffles, and wipes her face with the back of her glove while balancing the empty urn in her other hand. “Let’s go home,” he prompts, rubbing her shoulders some. It takes a while for the tears to subside, so Malcolm gives her some time to work through it.

Eventually, she lets go of the anguish and relaxes against Malcolm so she can catch her breath. 

Finally, they take their first steps toward living in a world without their father.

Malcolm cradles Ainsley through the winter air, across the bridge, and back onto the hard trail from which they came from. Slowly, she lifts up her head to look Malcolm in the eye and searches for something unspoken but easy to find in the eyes of someone who’s never felt it before.

Freedom.

He notices the look in her eyes, too.

They share a warm, comforting smile in the cold Manhattan winter, and their hearts melt away the ice in their lungs and the words that get caught in their throat from the fear of hurting again. Each other’s best friend, they hold onto each other like a lifeline, and they need each other now more than ever to stay afloat.

Malcolm has never told Ainsley that their father is always with him at any given point in the day, talking, giving ideas, and taunting him to do the most unspeakable things imaginable. He never tells her that he was there during the interview, lurking behind her with the biggest smile on his face.

Ainsley has never told Malcolm that her crystal necklace was custom made to hold their father's ashes. She never tells him that she’s been wearing it for months now as a keepsake, and can’t leave the house without it. Of course, if something happens to the one around her neck, she has a backup. And a third.

They never tell each other this. Somewhere in the back of their minds and in their crowded hearts, they silently agree that it’s probably better if it stays this way.

The illusion of the other finally free is enough grounds to put their doubts aside and enjoy this peaceful moment they share together.

As they work their way back through the fading green leaves they hold on to each other. They seek out the comfort of one another while they wander through Manhattan relaxed and at ease, content with themselves as Martin wanders behind them to enjoy the view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You can let go of the pain without diminishing how it made you feel – validation should be consistent while shedding some of that hurt along the way."
> 
> Our story has come to an end, but there are many many more to come. This has been an incredible journey, and I'm extremely proud of the hard work our team put in. I hope you enjoyed this as much as we do! Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
